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APPLETONS'  NEW  HANDY-VOLUME  SERIES. 


FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 


BY 


MAURICE   MAURIS, 

(marchese  di  calenzano). 


NEW  YORK: 

D.    APPLETON    AND    COMPANY, 

1,  3,  AND  5  BOND  STEEET. 

1880. 


COPYRIGHT  BY 

D.    APPLET  ON    AND    COMPANY. 

1880. 


TO 

C  HARLE  S    A.    DANA 

WITH   GRATEFUL   HEABT 
BY   THE  AUTHOR. 


N6  che  poco  io  ti  dia  da  Imputar  sono, 
Sc  tutto  quel  che  ho  tutto  ti  dono. 

Tasso. 


395937 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arcinive 

in  2007  witii  funding  fcom 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.arcliive.org/details/frenclimenofletteOOmaurricli 


CONTENTS, 


PAGE 

Victor  Hugo         ......      5 

Alfred  de  Musset       .....  85 

Theophile  Gautier  .  .  .  .  .65 

Henri  Murger  ....  89 

Sainte-Beuve         ......  108 

Gerard  de  Nerval      ...  .129 

Alexandre  Dumas,  fils    .....  161 

Emile  Augier  ......         172 

Octave  Feuillet    .  .  .  .  .  .187 

Victorien  Sardou        .  .  •  .  .199 

Alphonse  Daudet  .  .  .  •  .  .219 

^MiLE  Zola      ......         244 


FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 


VICTOR  HUGO. 
I. 

GUERNSEY. 

"  Par  votre  ange  envol6  ainsi  qu'une  colombe ! 
Par  CO  royal  enfant,  doux  et  fr61e  roseau  I 
Gr^ce  encore  une  fois — grdce  au  nom  de  la  tombe, 

Grdce  au  nom  du  berceau." 

I  FIRST  read  these  lines  by  Victor  Hugo  when  a 
mere  boy.  They  fixed  themselves  on  my  memory, 
and  for  many  days  I  unconsciously  repeated  them 
as  though  they  were  the  burden  of  a  song  which 
I  had  learned  in  the  nursery.  Although  I  was 
ignorant  of  the  historical  events  to  which  they 
owed  their  origin,  I  was  struck  with  their  sublim- 
ity, and  it  seemed  to  me  impossible  that  any 
one  could  say  in  a  hundred  lines  more  than  Vic- 
tor Hugo  had  here  said  in  four.  My  father  then 
explained  to  me  that  the  poet  was  a  strong  advo- 
cate of  the  abolition  of  capital  punishment,  and 


6  'f^KEiNOH  JtfEN  OF   LETTERS. 

' 'h'avi '  dddrefe'sed  thfe' stanza  to  Louis  Philippe  as  a 
plea  for  the  life  of  Barbes,  wlio  had  been  con- 
demned to  death  as  the  leader  of  the  Paris  insur- 
rection of  May  12,  1830.  From  that  day  I  loved 
Victor  Hugo  with  all  my  heart.  In  my  boyish 
imagination  I  lent  to  him  the  countenance  of  the 
guardian  angel  of  life. 

As  I  grew  older  I  gave  days  and  nights  to  the 
great  master's  novels  and  poems.  The  new,  deep, 
never-to-be-forgotten  emotions  which  I  experi- 
enced can  not  be  conveyed  by  words  ;  yet  my 
mind  was  far  too  narrow  to  receive  the  wealth  of 
his.  This  man,  now  as  sweet  and  candid  as  a 
child,  and  then  as  tremendous  as  Satan  in  Milton's 
epic ;  as  loving  as  a  woman,  and  at  once  as  fan- 
tastic and  profound  as  Goethe  ;  now  insensate, 
and  then  sublime  ;  now  a  high  priest,  and  then  an 
iconoclast — ^identifying  in  short  the  most  varied 
phases  of  nature — this  man  was  a  mystery  to  me. 
I  next  read  of  his  exile  and  misfortunes,  and 
learned  to  worship  him  as  a  hero.  "  I  felt  a  hand 
that  made  me  bow  my  head  in  reverent  admira- 
tion," and  to  see  him  became  one  of  the  most  ar- 
dent desires  of  my  youth. 

At  the  end  of  the  year  1866,  I  went  to  Paris. 
It  was  my  first  journey  abroad.  Victor  Hugo 
then  lived  in  the  hospitable  island  of  Guernsey. 
Having  procured  an  introduction,  I  started  for 
the  island  before  I  had  caught  more  than  a  glimpse 
at  the  metropolis  of  the  world.     I  need  not  dwell 


VICTOR  HUGO.  7 

upon  the  hesitation  which  I  felt  in  approaching 
Haute  ville  House,  nor  upon  my  lingering  about 
the  mansion  before  I  could  muster  sufficient  cour- 
age to  pass  the  garden  gate.  The  poet  was  seated 
in  a  corner  of  the  garden  under  an  aloe-tree 
about  ten  feet  in  height,  attentively  perusing  a 
newspaper.  I  remained  on  the  spot  from  which  I 
had  discovered  him,  as  though  rooted  in  the  soil. 
Noticing  the  presence  of  a  stranger,  he  arose  and 
stepped  toward  me.  I  could  hardly  take  off  my 
hat,  and  my  tongue  refused  me  its  usual  service. 
Hugo,  perceiving  that  I  could  not  speak,  smiled 
and  kindly  said  :  "  Well,  what  is  it  ?  Whom  are 
you  looking  for  ?  Can  I  do  anything  for  you  ?  " 
I  recovered  from  my  embarrassment  sufficiently 
to  draw  from  my  pocket  and  hand  him  the  letter 
of  introduction.  While  he  perused  it,  he  nodded 
his  head  in  sign  of  satisfaction,  his  countenance 
brightened  as  if  the  note  brought  him  good  tid- 
ings, and,  still  keeping  his  eyes  fastened  on  the 
paper,  he  slowly  stretched  out  to  me  his  right 
hand,  which  I  eagerly  seized,  muttering  his  name 
with  an  agitation  that  I  could  not  control. 

A  pause  followed,  as  though  the  great  man 
intended  to  afford  me  time  to  subdue  my  emo- 
tion ;  and  then,  in  a  grave  sweet  voice,  such  as  I 
had  never  heard  before,  he  welcomed  me  to  the 
house  of  his  exile  and  invited  me  to  enter. 

I  was  led  into  a  parlor  called  the  "  Oak  Gal- 
lery," from  its  being  all  decorated  with  oak  panels 


8  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

and  old  furniture  of  the  same  wood  handsomely 
carved.  Among  other  curiosities  in  this  room 
there  was  a  stall  carved  with  the  coat  of  arms  of 
the  Bourbons,  whichj  as  he  explained  to  me,  was 
originally  placed  in  the  cathedral  at  Chartres,  and 
was  reserved  for  the  "Daughters  of  France" 
when  they  went  thither  on  a  pilgrimage.  But 
my  attention  was  too  much  engrossed  with  the 
man  before  me  to  give  heed  to  any  other  object. 
He  compelled  me  to  seat  myself  beside  him  on  a 
sofa,  and  the  conversation  was  resumed  ;  I  was, 
however,  disappointed  ;  I  had  gone  to  listen  and 
I  was  forced  instead  to  do  most  of  the  talking. 
As  the  letter  of  which  I  was  the  bearer  informed 
him  that  I  had  followed  Garibaldi  in  his  last  cam- 
paign against  the  Austrians,  the  great  Italian  was 
the  subject  of  his  first  inquiries.  He  wanted  me 
to  tell  him  whether  I  was  personally  acquainted 
with  "  the  hero  of  the  two  worlds " ;  how  many 
times  I  had  seen  him  ;  what  he  had  told  me;  how 
he  was,  and  how  he  felt  about  the  retreat  from 
Tyrol,  after  he  had  conquered  its  most  impregna- 
ble passes  with  the  sacrifice  of  the  most  generous 
youth  of  Italy.  Then  he  begged  me  to  describe 
those  defiles  and  mountains  which  we  had  taken, 
and  from  which  a  handful  of  men  could  by  throw- 
ing stones  keep  at  bay  a  powerful  army  ;  and  to 
describe,  in  all  their  details,  the  battles  I  had  wit- 
nessed, with  the  assistance  of  diagrams,  which  he 
asked  me  to  draw  for  him,  and  which  he  wished 


VICTOR  HUGO.  9 

to  preserve.  He  next  questioned  me  as  to  the 
political  condition  of  Italy,  and  its  feelings  toward 
Napoleon  IIL,  and  many  other  kindred  subjects, 
which  always  led  me  a  long  way  off.  !N"early 
three  hours  were  spent  in  this  way  and  I  was 
about  leaving,  when  he  insisted  on  my  remaining 
to  take  dinner  with  him.  "  I  can  not  offer  you 
very  much,"  he  said  :  "  English  cooking  affords 
no  variety,  but  enfin^  on  pent  se  contenter.  Good 
roast  beef  and  good  potatoes  are  sufficient  to  keep 
any  one  alive.  Remain,  and  you  will  make  the 
acquaintance  of  my  family.  My  sons  have  gone 
fishing,  but  will  be  back  for  dinner."  I  re- 
mained the  more  willingly  as  I  had,  so  far,  seen 
nothing  of  the  poet  but  his  inexhaustible  inquisi- 
tiveness,  which,  though  it  bespoke  the  interest 
he  felt  in  the  welfare  of  Italy,  could  in  no  way 
content  my  desire  to  gather  a  few  souvenirs  of  his 
genius. 

Charles  and  Fran9ois  Victor  Hugo  having  re- 
turned, the  poet  went  into  the  garden,  picked  a 
few  flowers,  disposed  them  on  the  plates  reserved 
for  the  wives  of  his  two  beloved  sons  and  the 
faithful  companion  of  his  exile,  and  the  ladies 
were  called.  The  dinner  was  served,  the  guests 
being  Hennet  de  Kesler  and  myself.  Hennet  de 
Kesler  was  a  talented  journalist  who  had  been 
exiled  in  1851.  He  resided  at  Guernsey,  giving 
lessons  in  French  and  Latin.  Every  morning  go- 
ing to  pupils,  Kesler  would  pass  by  the  poet's 


10  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

house,  and,  whether  the  latter  saw  him  or  not,  he 
would  reverently  lift  his  hat  to  him.  Victor 
Hugo,  learning  who  he  was  and  that  his  income 
was  scarcely  sufficient  for  his  support,  so  earnestly 
begged  him  to  become  his  daily  guest  that  Kes- 
ler  could  not  decline  the  offer.  In  the  dining- 
room,  itself  as  large  as  many  an  American  house, 
the  objects  that  most  commanded  attention  were 
the  dinner-table,  capable  of  accommodating  at  least 
twenty  persons,  and  a  huge  arm-chair  placed  at 
the  head  of  the  table  and  fastened  with  an  iron 
chain  in  such  a  way  that  nobody  could  sit  upon 
it.  I  learned  afterward  that  this  chair  was  the 
sella  defunct oriirriy  or  "  the  ancestors'  seat,"  the 
poet  having  thus  revived  a  custom  of  the  golden 
age  of  the  Roman  Republic,  when  the  spirits  of 
the  dead  were  called  to  preside  over  the  daily  re- 
pasts. To-day  the  poet's  fancy  would  perhaps 
force  a  skeptic  smile  to  my  lips  ;  at  the  time  it 
appeared  sublime  to  me  and  enhanced  my  venera- 
tion for  him.  Was  I  wrong  then,  or  am  I  so  to- 
day ? 

Victor  Hugo's  manners  were,  toward  every 
one,  the  servant  included,  so  simple,  unassuming, 
and  friendly  that  I  wondered  whether  he  had 
no  consciousness  whatever  of  his  own  greatness. 
He  had  asked  me  from  what  part  of  Italy  I  came, 
and  on  hearing  that  I  was  born  at  Nice  he  impul- 
sively replied,  "  Why,  then  you  are  a  French- 
man !  "  I  gazed  at  him  in  amazement.     Was  the 


VICTOR  HUGO.  11 

apostle  of  freedom  and  progress,  he  who  had  writ- 
ten "  Les  Miserables,"  now  sanctioning  a  robbery, 
or,  at  best,  a  fraudulent  bargain  that  Napoleon 
had  imposed  upon  a  nation  which  could  not  help 
itself?  My  astonishment  did  not  admit  of  two 
interpretations.  "  Come  !  "  said  Victor  Hugo, 
laughing  quite  loudly  ;  "  do  not  get  angry,  young 
man.  My  remark  was  thrown  there  into  the  con- 
versation as  an  experiment  I  desired  to  make  upon 
your  patriotism.  Here,  let  us  shake  hands,  and 
tell  your  Italian  friends  that  I  am  the  first  to  re- 
gret that  the  home  of  Garibaldi  was  given  to  us  ; 
that  I  detest  usurpations  of  all  kinds,  and  espe- 
cially those  which  are  carried  on  under  the  mask 
of  sham  plebiscites,  though  they  may  be  perpe- 
trated for  the  material  aggrandizement  of  my  own 
country."  Then,  bringing  the  glass  to  his  lips, 
he  concluded  :  "  To  the  restitution  of  Nice,  if 
Nice  prove  herself  Italian."  "  To  the  integrity 
of  France,"  I  replied  ;  "  may  your  country  never 
lose  a  foot  of  the  ground  that  is  really  French." 
A  cloud  seemed  to  spread  over  the  brow  of  the 
poet,  who  rejoined  :  "  Alas  !  whither  France  will 
be  driven  by  the  Empire  no  one  can  foresee  ! " 
Was  his  insight  forecasting  the  loss  of  Alsace  and 
Lorraine  ? 

Little  by  little  Victor  Hugo's  countenance 
brightened  again,  as  one  who  ever  had  faith  in 
the  destinies  of  his  country.  The  conversation 
turned  to  literature,  and  every  sentence  of  his  was 


12  FREXCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

marked  by  the  loftiness,  incisiveness,  and  origi- 
nality that  are  characteristic  of  his  writings. 
Would  that  I  had  the  power  to  record,  however 
imperfectly,  the  noble  thoughts  with  which  his 
amiable  communications  were  filled  ;  his  touching 
narratives,  his  graphic  and  poetic  descriptions,  and 
his  Rabelaisian  witticisms  ! 

I  do  not  recollect  how  I  was  driven  to  it  by 
the  conversation  :  it  is,  at  all  events,  a  fact  that  I 
related  to  Victor  Hugo  under  what  circumstances 
I  had  first  become  acquainted  with  his  poetry, 
and  the  origin  of  my  love  for  him.  He  seemed 
deeply  moved  by  the  narrative,  and  at  its  conclu- 
sion he  enthusiastically  exclaimed,  grasping  my 
hand  :  "  Tenez^  Monsieur ;  I  am  prouder  of  the 
effect  I  produced  upon  you  by  those  four  lines 
than  of  the  triumph  I  achieved  from  the  first 
representation  of  *Lucretia  Borgia.'  So  I  have 
made  of  you  an  opponent  to  capital  punishment, 
have  I  ?  Well,  I  am,  for  this  reason,  prouder  to 
make  your  acquaintance  than  if  you  had  built  the 
Pyramids.  I  wish  I  could  convert  the  whole  of 
mankind.  That  has  been  the  aim  of  my  life  ;  un- 
fortunately, my  talent  is  too  limited  and  a  man's 
life  too  short  for  the  purpose."  I  took  good 
care  to  keep  up  the  conversation  on  this  topic. 
Knowing  how  much  it  engrossed  Victor  Hugo's 
mind,  I  felt  sure  that  it  would  bring  forth  some 
noteworthy  sayings  from  his  lips.  I  find  the  fol- 
lowing registered  in  my  diary  :  "  A  machine  to 


VICTOR  HUGO.  13 

cut  heads  off  is  actually  de  trop  in  a  society  that 
is  governed  by  the  Gospel."  "  A  law  which  dips 
its  finger  in  human  blood  to  write  the  command- 
ment, '  Thou  shalt  not  murder,'  is  naught  but  an 
example  of  legal  transgression  against  the  precept 
itself."  Then,  gazing  into  the  future,  with  the 
accent  that  only  faith  can  impart  to  the  utterance, 
he  continued  :  "  The  scaffold  will  fall  some  day 
into  the  abyss  of  execration  into  which  have  fallen 
already  the  hot  iron,  the  cleaving  knife,  the  tor- 
ture, and  the  inquisition.  The  sinister  figure  of 
the  hangman  must  disappear  sooner  or  later  from 
the  luminous  sanctuary  of  justice.  The  puppet 
that  men  call  justice  may  tolerate  him,  but  real 
eternal  justice  can  not.  Mankind  will  understand 
it  at  an  early  date,  for  progress  is  hastening  its 
step  at  a  wonderful  rate." 

In  leaving  Haute ville  House  I  felt  myself  hap- 
pier and  stronger.  How  fortifying  were  his  fiery 
words,  uttered,  as  they  were,  with  such  an  earnest, 
vibrating  voice,  and  such  an  accent  of  profound 
conviction.  What  an  imperishable  souvenir  was 
left  by  those  hours  spent  in  listening  to  the  great- 
est poet  of  our  time,  while  he  spoke  of  his  coun- 
try and  of  the  constant  improvement  of  the  human 
race  !  How  near,  then,  seemed  the  far-distant  era 
which  he,  like  a  prophet,  summoned  from  the 
clouds  of  the  future,  when  the  triumph  of  free- 
dom will  be  complete,  and  universal  brotherhood 
an  accomplished  fact.     That  night  I  understood 


14  FRENCH   MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

why  the  parish  priest  of  Dordrecht,  Zeland,  kept 
"  Les  Miserables  "  on  the  altar  by  the  side  of  the 
Gospel,  and  why  he  was  wont  to  say  that  'Hhe 
former  was  naught  but  a  practical  comment  upon 
the  latter." 

I  had  gone  to  Guernsey  with  the  intention  of 
remaining  a  day  or  two,  and  instead  staid  two 
weeks,  passing  most  of  my  time  at  Hauteville 
House.  That  which  was  exile  for  the  author  of 
"  Les  Chatiments  "  was  for  me  a  paradise.  Haute- 
ville must  be  considered  as  the  poet's  home  more 
than  any  other  house  which  he  had  previously  or 
has  since  inhabited.  Everything  there  had  been 
transfonned  by  his  inventive  genius.  There  were 
all  the  objects  of  art,  the  thousand  curiosities  he 
had  gathered  in  his  travels,  his  family  portraits, 
and  the  relics  of  his  many  friends  who  had  fallen 
victims  to  monarchical  or  imperial  tyranny. 

My  curiosity  was  not  a  little  stirred  by  a  small 
stand  in  which  were  set  four  inkstands.  Charles 
Hugo  explained  to  me  that  those  were  the  ink- 
stands of  his  father,  of  George  Sand,  Lamartine, 
and  Alexandre  Dumas  pere.  They  had  been 
bought  by  Victor  Hugo  at  a  charity  fair,  to  which 
he  had  previously  presented  them,  the  poet  having 
been  asked  not  only  to  offer  his  own,  but  to  obtain 
the  others  from  his  fellow  writers  and  friends. 
Under  a  glass  cover  on  a  shelf  there  was  a  lead 
pencil,  and  I  inquired  why  it  was  thus  sacredly 
preserved.    "  It  is  a  relic,"  the  poet  said.    "  On  De- 


VICTOR  HUGO.  15 

cember  2,  1851,  at  the  moment  when  the  people's 
representatives  constituted  themselves  into  a  com- 
mittee of  resistance,  and  distributed  among  them- 
selves the  various  missions  they  had  to  fulfill  in 
the  different  districts  of  Paris,  I  had  a  proclama- 
tion to  write.  I  borrowed  that  pencil  from  Bau- 
din,  and,  as  usually,  when  I  was  through  I  stuck 
the  pencil  in  my  pocket.  On  the  morrow  Bau- 
din  was  shot  at  the  barricade  of  Ste.  Marguerite, 
after  fighting  most  gallantly  against  the  troops  of 
Monsieur  *  Deux  Decembre,'  and  I  have  kept  his 
lead  pencil  as  the  relic  of  a  hero." 

But  more  interesting  is  the  gallery  where  are 
exhibited  the  pen-and-ink  sketches  by  the  poet. 
The  "Album"  that  the  engraver  Chenay  pub- 
lished, about  1860,  made  the  world  acquainted 
with  Victor  Hugo's  genius  as  a  draughtsman  ; 
but  to  appreciate  it  fully  is  impossible  to  any  one 
who  has  not  visited  the  gallery  of  Hauteville 
House.  Executed  with  quill  pens,  matches,  or 
rolled  paper,  these  drawings  are  marked  by  the 
most  intense  contrasts  of  light  and  shade.  As  the 
poet  is,  so  is  the  draughtsman.  "  The  strokes  of 
his  pencil,  like  his  phrases,"  a  critic  says,  "be- 
speak the  paws  of  the  lion."  Victor  Hugo  does 
not  portray  the  beautiful,  but  the  great,  the  ter- 
rible, and  the  sublime.  He  delights  in  drawing 
falling  walls,  ruined  turrets,  dark-pointed  arcades, 
huge  rocks,  rough,  many-pointed  peaks,  endless 
desert-plains — in  short,  landscapes  as  imposing  as 
2 


16  FRENCH   MEN   OF  LETTERS. 

those  which  Vertunni's  color  and  brush  are  wont 
to  produce.  Like  Michael  Angelo,  he  is  fond  of 
allegorical  representations,  of  which  I  saw  two 
fine  specimens.  A  very  impressive  one,  of  large 
proportions,  showed  a  split,  disabled  ship,  rolling 
at  the  mercy  of  the  billows,  which  bore  the  motto, 
^^  Fracta  sed  Invicta.^^  E-ivet,  in  his  recent  book, 
"  Victor  Hugo  chez  Lui,"  seems  to  believe  that  it 
was  intended  to  represent  the  poet's  soul.  I  have, 
however,  an  idea  that  the  latter  told  me  it  was  an 
allegory  of  France,  which  is  the  more  probable, 
as  another  design,  "My  Destiny,"  showing  an 
enormous  black  and  foaming  wave  in  a  stormy 
sea,  would  seem  sufficiently  personal.  Moreover, 
the  similitude  of  the  disabled  ship  has  by  Victor 
Hugo  been  applied  to  France  in  some  of  his 
poems. 

The  sanctuary  of  Hauteville  House  is,  how- 
ever, the  poet's  studio,  or  "  The  Glass  Room,"  so 
called  from  its  walls  being  on  three  sides  of  win- 
dows, so  as  to  lose  none  of  the  beauties  of  the  sur- 
rounding landscape,  which  its  owner  is  never  tired 
of  admiring.  There  the  poet  used  to  work  many 
hours  every  day.  At  the  time  of  my  visit  all  the 
furniture  in  the  room  was  buried  under  masses  of 
books,  journals,  and  papers  of  all  descriptions;  a 
few  vases  of  flowers  in  a  corner  being,  in  fact,  the 
sole  objects  that  were  not  wholly  hidden  from 
sight  in  this  way.  It  was  the  privilege  of  a  very 
few  friends  to  enter  this  room,  but,  by  the  kind- 


VICTOR  HUGO.  17 

ness  of  Fran9ois  Victor  Hugo  I  was  permitted  to 
inspect  it  during  tlie  poet's  absence.  Nor  did  I 
regret  that  I  could  remain  there  but  a  few  min- 
utes; the  room  filled  me  with  awe.  Only  an  eagle 
like  its  regular  occupant  could  breathe  freely  in 
an  atmosphere  so  heavy  with  thought.  It  seemed 
as  though  it  was  pervaded  with  all  of  Victor 
Hugo's  greatness  without  its  being  tempered  by 
his  kindness.  As  regards  the  poet's  manner  of 
working,  it  may  be  said  that  it  is  the  mode  most 
consistent  with  nature.  He  follows  the  inspiration 
of  the  moment.  He  generally  has  many  works  in 
hand,  for  his  mind  is  never  at  rest,  and  he  passes 
from  one  to  the  other  according  to  impulse.  "  Of- 
ten," he  told  me,  "  I  will  write  on  the  same  day  a 
piece  of  poetry,  a  chapter  of  a  novel,  a  scene  of  a 
drama,  and  a  few  pages  of  some  historical  work. 
*  Notre  Dame  de  Paris '  and  *  Napoleon  le  Petit ' 
are  the  only  books  which  I  have  actually  written 
without  interruption."  It  is  curious  to  recall  that 
Victor  Hugo,  on  each  of  these  occasions,  bought 
a  bottle  of  ink,  which  was  emptied  just  when  the 
word  "End"  was  appended  to  each  of  the  books. 
The  manuscript  of  "  Notre  Dame  de  Paris  "  had 
been  sold  before  a  single  word  of  it  was  written. 
Events,  and  above  all  the  distractions  that  his 
engagements  with  the  managers  of  the  Parisian 
theatres  wrought  constantly  upon  him,  had  pre- 
vented his  attending  to  the  work.  Only  three  or 
four  months  separated  him  from  the  date  when 


18  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

the  manuscript  had  to  be  delivered  to  the  publisher. 
The  poet  was  to  forfeit  one  thousand  francs  for 
every  week's  delay.  He  bought  a  bottle  of  ink 
and  a  knitted  robe  that  enveloped  him  from  head 
to  foot,  locked  up  all  his  other  clothes,  gave  the 
key  to  his  wife,  and  "  entered  his  novel  as  if  it 
were  a  prison."  For  a  moment  he  entertained  the 
idea  of  entitling  the  book  "  What  Came  Out  of  A 
Bottle  of  Ink."  A  few  years  later  he  was  speak- 
ing of  the  coincidence  with  Alphonse  Karr,  who, 
charmed  with  the  idea,  borrowed  the  title  from 
the  poet  and  gave  it  to  a  series  of  stories,  of 
which  "  Genevieve  "  is  the  well-known  gem.  "  Na- 
poleon le  Petit "  was  begun  June  12,  1852,  and 
finished  July  14.  With  the  last  drops  of  ink  he 
wrote  on  the  ticket  of  the  bottle  the  following 
inscription  : 

"  De  cette  bouteille  sortit 
Napoleon  le  Petit.— V.  H." 

Victor  Hugo,  however,  works  more  in  the  open 
air,  when  he  seems  to  do  nothing  but  walk,  than 
when  he  is  at  his  desk.  It  is  only  the  mechanical 
part  of  his  labor  that  he  performs  while  sitting  at 
the  latter.  Even  in  his  room  he  often  walks  up 
and  down,  like  a  caged  lion,  making  occasional 
halts  either  before  his  desk  to  wi'ite  the  thoughts 
that  have  occurred  to  his  mind,  or  before  the  win- 
dows, which  are  always  open,  despite  hot,  cold,  or 
rainy  weather.    He  usually  writes  with  a  quill,  on 


VICTOR  HUGO.  19 

paper  of  very  large  size.  His  handwriting  is  bold 
and  strong,  the  letters  being  generally  long  and 
thin  in  form.  Some  pages  of  his  manuscripts  are 
as  neat  as  though  they  had  been  copied  by  a  lady; 
some  contain  hardly  anything  but  erasures.  The 
former  are  ordinarily  those  which  he  writes  either 
on  his  return  from  a  long  walk,  during  which  they 
have  undergone  a  careful  process  of  mental  eras- 
ing, or  those  he  has  conceived  in  moments  of 
great  excitement;  and  in  both  cases  they  are  often 
his  best. 

Victor  Hugo  is  hy  no  means  an  egotist;  but 
when  a  man  has  been,  as  it  were,  the  center  to 
which  converge  all  the  radii  of  a  circle,  he  can  not 
hide  his  personality  whenever  the  men  and  events 
of  his  time  are  spoken  of.  He  very  seldom 
speaks  of  himself  if  he  is  not  compelled  to  do  so, 
and  if  it  is  not  in  connection  with  others,  never 
assigning  the  most  prominent  place  to  his  own 
person,  though  he  might  in  many  cases  do  so  con- 
sistently with  truth.  As  may  be  readily  imagined, 
his  life  affords  a  series  of  anecdotes  of  the  most 
varied  nature,  selection  from  which  becomes  a 
puzzling  problem.  The  most  amusing  are,  per- 
haps, those  relating  to  his  career  as  a  playwright, 
and  to  the  numberless  criticisms  by  which  every 
one  of  his  works  has  been  assailed.  Though  clev- 
i  erly  told  by  his  beloved  wife,  in  her  book  "  Vic- 
f  tor  Hugo  E-aconte,"  the  piques  of  Mile.  Mars,  the 
great  actres,s  become  uninteresting  to  him  who 


20  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

has  had  the  good  fortune  to  listen  to  the  glowing 
style  and  humor  of  the  poet  himself. 

One  evening,  when  A.  Vacquerie  and  the  dra- 
matist Paul  Meurice  were  visiting  their  "master," 
as  they  were  wont  to  call  Victor  Hugo,  I  had 
perhaps  the  greatest  satisfaction  of  my  whole  life. 
Victor  Hugo  read  for  us  a  part  of  his  poem, 
"  Entre  Geants  et  Dieux,"  which  was,  later  on,  to 
become  a  leaf  of  his  great  epic,  "  La  Legende  des 
Siecles."  I  have  heard  many  readers,  but  no  one 
has  ever  produced  so  profound  an  impression  upon 
my  mind.  His  strong,  resonant  voice  imparted 
life  to  every  line,  until  little  by  little  it  sounded 
like  the  thundering  voice  of  a  prophet.  When  I 
think  that  I  was  the  first  to  hear  that  poem,  like 
Rivet,  I  feel  as  proud  as  though  I  were  the  author 
of  it.  Many  times  since  its  publication  I  have  at- 
tempted to  read  it  through,  but  have  always  closed 
the  book  in  despair,  as  I  never  can  forbear  think- 
ing of  the  voice,  the  glance,  and  the  gesture  of  the 
poet  from  whose  lips  I  first  heard  it  read,  with- 
out which  it  seems  to  lose  much  of  its  sublime 
beauty. 

Unfortunately,  I  was  obliged  to  return  to 
Paris.  On  my  arrival,  I  wrote  a  letter  to  the  poet, 
to  thank  him  for  the  kindness  with  which  he  had 
received  me.  As  I  knew  how  large  was  the  num- 
ber of  letters  he  had  to  write  daily,  though  I  longed 
for  one  of  his  as  I  have  for  no  other,  my  note  was 
so  conceived  as  to  demand  no  reply.     Fancy  my 


VICTOR  HUGO.  21 

happiness  when  the  unexpected  answer  came ! 
The  envelope,  as  a  challenge  to  the  Government  of 
the  Emperor,  that  had  on  several  occasions  violat- 
ed the  secrecy  of  the  poet's  correspondence,  bore 
in  print  Article  187  of  the  French  Code,  which 
determines  the  penalties  incurred  by  the  violators 
of  private  letters.  As  for  the  note,  I  regret  to  say 
that,  the  original  being  no  longer  in  my  posses- 
sion, I  am  unable  to  publish  its  contents. 

n. 

PABIS. 

Before  proceeding  further  with  my  personal 
recollections  of  Victor  Hugo,  it  will  not  be  amiss 
to  give  a  brief  insight  into  his  earlier  history. 
Victor  Hugo  was  born  at  Besan9on,  February  28, 
1802.  He  was  the  third  son  of  General  Count 
Joseph  Leopold  Hugo,  so  thoroughly  hated  by 
Napoleon  I.,  and  so  greatly  loved  by  the  latter's 
brother  Joseph,  King  of  Naples,  and  afterward  of 
Spain.  At  his  birth,  Victor  Hugo  was  no  taller 
than  a  fork.  From  his  earliest  childhood  he 
showed  an  extraordinary  inclination  toward  study, 
and  by  himself  he  learned  how  to  read  before  he 
was  five  years  old.  He  spoke  little  ;  his  remarks, 
which  were  always  striking,  were  generally  ques- 
tions. He  had  a  sweet  countenance  and  a  most 
loving  disposition,  though  occasionally  very  noisy, 
lively,  and  fond  of  playing  soldiers  with  his  elder 


22  FRENCH  MEX   OF  LETTERS. 

brothers.  His  favorite  amusements  were  swing- 
ing and  gardening. 

His  mother  was  ever  at  a  loss  how  to  prevent 
him  from  tearing  his  trousers.  On  one  occasion 
she  told  him  that  she  would  condemn  him  to  wear 
a*pair  of  dragoon's  breeches  if  he  did  not  take 
better  care  of  his.  Two  or  three  days  later  the 
little  Victor  was  returning  from  school  when  he 
happened  to  meet  with  a  detachment  of  cavalry, 
whose  uniform  glittering  in  the  sun  appeared  un- 
usually handsome.  "  What  soldiers  are  those  ?  " 
asked  the  boy  of  his  nurse.  "Dragoons,"  she 
replied.  Victor  stared  at  her  in  amazement,  but 
added  not  a  word.  He  returned  home,  and,  when 
Madame  Hugo  missed  the  usual  noise,  she  proceed- 
ed to  see  what  the  boy  was  doing.  She  found  him 
concealed  behind  a  rock  in  a  corner  of  the  garden, 
busy  tearing  his  trousers.  "  What  are  you  doing 
there?"  angrily  asked  his  mother.  "I  want  to 
have  a  pair  of  dragoon's  breeches,"  was  the  little 
fellow's  cool  reply. 

Once,  when  he  was  about  five  years  old,  being 
severely  scolded  by  his  mother,  he  burst  into  bit- 
ter sobbing.  His  father,  overhearing  his  cries, 
scoffingly  called  him  a  "  little  girl,"  and  ordered 
him  to  be  dressed  as  such  and  taken  to  the  gardens 
of  the  Tuileries.  "  I  was  so  humiliated  by  this 
kind  of  punishment,"  says  Victor  Hugo,  "  that  I 
never  cried  afterward." 

General  Hugo  having  followed  Joseph  Bona- 


i 


VICTOR  HUGO.  23 

parte  to  Italy  and  Spain,  his  wife  joined  him  there 
with  her  children.  A  short  while  after  their  ar- 
rival at  Madrid  (1811),  the  two  youngest  children 
of  Count  Hugo,  Eugene  and  Victor,  were  placed 
in  the  College  of  the  Nobility,  and  the  eldest,  Abel, 
entered  the  Court  as  a  page  to  the  King.  Don 
Bazil,  the  principal  of  the  school,  was  not  a  little 
embarrassed  when  he  perceived  that  the  two  boys 
translated  Yirgil  as  well  as  he  himself  could. 
Being  admitted  to  the  senior  class,  their  fellows, 
who  had  at  first  looked  upon  them  with  contempt, 
could  not  forbear  admiring  their  talent  and  treat- 
ing them  on  a  footing  of  equality.  Their  stay  at 
the  Nobles'  College  was,  however,  short.  At  the 
beginning  of  1812  the  condition  of  the  French  in 
Spain  becoming  more  and  more  precarious.  Gen- 
eral Hugo  determined  to  send  his  wife  and  chil- 
dren back  to  France.  During  the  last  two  years 
of  the  Empire,  the  education  of  Eugene  and  Vic- 
tor Hugo  was  continued  at  home,  as  consistently 
as  could  be  done  considering  the  unsettled  state  of 
affairs.  After  the  Restoration  they  entered  the 
Cordier  Institute,  and  soon  won  among  their  com- 
rades that  consideration  to  which  their  talents 
and  winning  manners  entitled  them.  Under  the 
leadership  respectively  of  the  brothers  Hugo  two 
parties  were  formed,  which  were  distinguished  by 
the  singular  names  of  Dogs  and  Calves.  The  two 
boys  reigned  over  their  subjects  with  a  tyranny 
that  in  no  way  foreshadowed  the  republican  prin- 


24  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

ciples  they  professed  later  in  life.  The  Dogs  and 
Calves  were  often  engaged  in  regular  pitched  bat- 
tles— handkerchiefs  with  solid  knots  at  one  end 
being  their  weapons.  In  one  of  these  battles  a 
member  of  the  Calves,  exasperated  with  the  defeat 
his  party  had  suffered,  put  a  stone  in  his  handker- 
chief, and  began  to  distribute  desperate  blows  on 
all  sides.  Victor  received  one  of  these  blows,  and 
was  severely  wounded  in  his  right  knee.  Carried 
to  the  institution,  he  was  seized  with  a  fever,  and 
the  physician  was  called.  Questioned  on  the  sub- 
ject, he  admitted  that  he  had  been  hit  with  a 
stone,  but  not  only  did  he  refuse  to  confess  by 
whom,  but  he  exacted  from  his  followers  as  well 
as  his  enemies  an  oath  of  secrecy,  which  was  scru- 
pulously kept. 

This  accident  determined  his  career  as  a  poet. 
Far  from  complaining  of  his  painful  wound,  he 
welcomed  it,  as  it  delivered  him  from  the  study 
of  mathematics  and  permitted  him  to  abandon 
himself  to  his  taste  for  poetry,  which  his  teacher, 
the  Abbe  Decotte,  was  endeavoring  to  check. 
Victor  Hugo  has  still  in  his  possession  some  copy- 
books filled  with  poems  which  belong  to  this 
epoch.  One  of  them  closes  with  the  following 
stanza  : 

"Ami  lecteor,  en  lisant  cet  6crit 
N"'exerce  pas  sur  moi  ta  satirique  rage, 
Et  que  la  faiblesse  de  I'age 
Excuse  oelle  de  Tesprit." 


VICTOR  HUGO.  25 

He  has  entitled  the  collection  of  these  writings 
"  The  Nonsense  I  Wrote  before  I  was  Born,"  and 
on  the  cover  in  which  they  are  preserved  there  is 
a  drawing  representing  an  egg  showing  inside  the 
embryo  of  a  bird.  In  1817,  the  subject  proposed 
by  the  Academy  for  the  prize  of  poetry  was  "  The 
Happiness  Derived  from  Study  in  all  Situations 
in  Life."  Victor  was  mastered  by  the  idea  of 
competing,  and  could  take  no  rest  until  he  had 
written  his  poem.  Aided  by  Biscarrat,  the  Prefect 
of  Discipline  of  the  institution  and  Victor  Hugo's 
early  critic,  his  poem  was  delivered  into  the  hands 
of  Cardot,  the  Secretary  of  the  Academy.  His 
age — fifteen — was  alluded  to  in  the  poem.  The 
majority  of  the  Academicians  thought  it  was  a 
trick  employed  to  mystify  them,  and  granted  its 
author  an  honorable  mention  instead  of  the  prize. 
When  the  truth  was  known  it  was  too  late  to 
change  the  verdict ;  but  the  President,  Fran9ois 
Neufchateau,  and  Chateaubriand  himself,  sought 
Victor's  acquaintance.  It  was  the  latter  who 
gave  to  the  precocious  boy  the  name  of  "  L'En- 
fant  Sublime."  A  few  months  later,  subsequently 
to  a  wager  which  occurred  at  a  literary  dinner  of 
young  people,  the  future  author  of  "Ninety- 
three  "  wrote,  in  two  weeks,  "  Bug  Jargal." 

In  August,  1818,  the  two  brothers  left  the 
Cordier  Institute  and  returned  to  live  with  their 
mother.  She  was  wont  to  spend  her  evenings  at 
a  friend's,  and  her  sons  regularly  accompanied 


26  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

her.  The  hours  passed  very  quietly  at  Mme. 
Foucher's  ;  indeed,  the  most  of  the  time,  owing 
to  the  nervous  irritability  of  M.  Foucher,  was 
passed  in  silence.  Yet  Victor  seemed  to  care  for 
nothing  but  paying  his  nightly  visit.  The  attrac- 
tion for  him  w^as  Mile.  Adele  Foucher.  Though 
he  rarely  exchanged  more  than  a  few  words  with 
her,  he  was  happy  provided  he  could  feast  his  eyes 
on  the  charming  countenance  of  the  young  lady, 
who  apparently  did  not  disdain  the  young  poet's 
attentions.  But  the  parents,  who  had  betrothed 
them  at  their  birth,  now  objected  to  the  growth 
of  their  affection,  on  account  of  their  extreme 
youth  and  poverty,  and  it  was  resolved  that  the 
Hugo  family  should  inteiTupt  their  visits.  Vic- 
tor was  devoted  to  his  mother,  and  silently  obeyed. 
On  June  27,  1821,  Eugene  and  his  brother 
stood  at  their  mother's  bedside.  She  had  been 
for  some  time  ill  with  congestion  of  the  lungs. 
"  See  how  much  better  mamma  is,"  said  Eugene 
to  his  brother.  "  She  has  never  slept  so  quietly 
for  a  long  time."  "  Yes,"  replied  Victor,  "  she 
will  be  soon  well  again."  He  leaned  to  kiss  her  ; 
her  brow  was  cold.  She  was  dead  !  The  event 
was  kept  secret  from  Mile.  Foucher.  After  his 
mother's  burial,  Victor  Hugo,  half  crazy  with 
grief,  almost  unconsciously  made  his  way  to  the 
house  of  Mme.  Foucher.  He  found  Adele  in  the 
garden.  His  presence,  and  more  than  that,  his 
pale,  distorted  countenance,  warned  the  young 


VICTOR  HUGO.  27 

lady  that  something  very  sad  had  occurred.  She 
rushed  to  him  and  anxiously  asked  what  was  the 
matter.  "  Yesterday  I  buried  my  mother,"  Vic- 
tor replied.  "  Buried  !  and  yesterday  I  was  danc- 
ing !  "  was  Adele's  reply.  They  both  burst  into 
tears,  and  this  was  their  betrothal.  The  marriage 
was,  however,  indefinitely  postponed  until  Hugo's 
finances  would  bear  the  luxury  of  giving  one's 
self  a  family. 

By  this  time,  through  the  publication  of  some 
poems  and  his  novel,  he  had  gathered  a  capital  of 
700  francs,  on  which  he  lived  one  year.  The 
budget  of  Marius  in  "  Les  Miserables "  is  but  a 
reproduction  of  his  own  at  the  time.  Shortly 
after  were  published  his  "Odes  and  Ballads." 
Severely  criticised  by  the  classicists,  they  were 
enthusiastically  received  by  the  community  at 
large.  The  King  bestowed  a  pension  upon  him, 
and  the  marriage  he  longed  for  was  finally  cele- 
brated. With  the  money  he  derived  from  "  Han 
d'Islande  "  —  about  eight  hundred  francs  —  he 
bought  an  Indian  shawl  as  a  wedding  present  to 
his  wife.  But  a  terrible  misfortune  came  at  once 
to  darken  his  happiness.  On  the  very  night  of 
the  wedding,  his  brother  Eugene,  the  companion 
of  his  whole  life,  became  incurably  insane.  Later 
on  he  lost  his  father,  and  shortly  his  first-bom 
child,  just  at  the  age  when  children  are  most 
charming  and  interesting.  The  following  epi- 
taph is  read  on  George's  gravestone  : 


28  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

"  Oh  dans  ce  monde  auguste  oh  rien  n'est  gph^mere/ 
Dans  ce  flot  de  bonheur  que  ne  trouble  aucun  fiel, 
Enfant !  loin  des  sourires  et  des  pleurs  de  ta  mere, 
N'est  tu  pas  orphelin  au  ciel  ? " 

Victor  Hugo  was  then  a  j^ale,  thin,  and  gentle 
youth,  whose  appearance  deceived  every  one. 
Publishers  and  theatrical  managers  could  not 
make  up  their  mind  to  believe  that  he  was  the 
author  of  so  many  masterpieces.  After  the  enor- 
mous success  of  "Hernani,"  the  director  of  a 
theatre  called  upon  him,  desirous  to  have  a  drama 
from  his  pen.  Hugo  happening  to  open  the  door 
himself,  the  stranger  mistook  him  for  the  author's 
son,  and  requested  him  to  announce  to  his  father 
that  a  visitor  wished  to  see  him  on  business. 

It  would  exceed  the  space  allotted  to  this 
sketch,  were  I  to  follow  Victor  Hugo  in  his  lit- 
erary career  during  the  fifty-seven  years  that  have 
elapsed  since  the  success  he  achieved  by  his  "  Odes 
and  Ballads."  No  man  was  perhaps  ever  more 
discussed  and  criticised,  but  the  flood  of  his  repu- 
tation has  triumphed  over  the  prejudices  of 
schools  and  parties.  The  Academy  rose  to  their 
feet  when  he  was  received  in  1841 — the  great- 
est honor  ever  paid  by  that  body  to  a  new 
member. 

Victor  Hugo's  exile  and  political  life  belong  to 
history,  and  are  sufficiently  known  ;  I  shall,  there- 
fore, again  restrict  my  narrative  to  the  field  of 
my  personal  experiences.     On  hearing  of  the  first 


VICTOR   HUGO.  29 

disasters  which  the  French  troops  had  suffered  in 
1870,  in  order  to  be  nearer  to  his  country  in  those 
hours  of  supreme  struggle,  he  removed  from 
Guernsey  to  Brussels.  As  soon  as  the  cowardice 
of  the  Emperor  determined  the  fall  of  the  Empire, 
Victor  Hugo  prepared  to  return  to  "  the  nest  of 
his  loves."  I  happened  to  be  on  the  same  train 
that  carried  him  to  Paris.  All  the  horrors  of  the 
war  surrounded  us.  The  country  around  Landre- 
cies  was  covered  with  the  bodies  of  soldiers  who 
had  died  of  fatigue  and  starvation.  Some  tattered 
and  ghastly  figures,  who  had  succeeded  in  gaining 
the  track,  raised  their  arms,  imploring  assistance, 
soon  to  drop  them  again,  utterly  exhausted.  Some, 
running  like  lunatics,  were  crying  for  bread  ; 
they  had  eaten  nothing  for  three  days.  Victor 
Hugo  fought  in  vain  against  the  emotion  that 
threatened  to  overcome  him  ;  his  heart  seemed  to 
break,  and  finally  he  burst  into  tears.  I  have 
never  witnessed  a  more  solemn  grief.  Stepping 
down  at  the  first  station,  he  organized  all  the  as- 
sistance that  was  possible  under  the  circumstances, 
and  then  resumed  his  journey. 

On  the  evening  of  September  5th,  all  Paris  was 
in  attendance  at  the  Northern  Railroad  Station 
to  hail  its  poet.  Though  Paris  had  so  many  rea- 
sons for  mourning,  the  enthusiasm  of  the  recep- 
tion tendered  to  him  surpasses  description.  His 
carriage  could  hardly  move  on,  and  no  less  than  two 
hours  were  needed  to  reach  the  house  of  Paul  Meu- 


30  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

rice,  in  the  Avenue  Frochot,  where  he  was  tempo- 
rarily to  put  up.  During  the  siege  of  Paris  he 
resided  at  the  Rohan  Pavilion,  Rue  de  Rivoli, 
tireless  in  his  efforts  to  organize  resistance,  and  to 
better  the  condition  and  enliven  the  courage  of  his 
fellow  citizens.  The  greatness  of  his  soul  revealed 
itself  in  his  constant  effort  to  conceal  his  anx- 
iety and  instill  hope  and  courage  into  others. 
While  his  heart  was  bleeding,  he  would,  for  the 
benefit  of  his  family  and  friends,  make  a  show 
of  good  humor  which  would  have  seemed  out  of 
place  to  any  one  unacquainted  with  him.  The 
strange  food  upon  which  he,  like  all  the  Parisians, 
was  obliged  to  live,  was  often  rendered  very  pala- 
table by  a  joke  or  an  epigram.  I  partook  twice 
of  his  poor  dinners.  It  was  on  one  of  those  occa- 
sions that  the  happy  phrase  was  uttered  which  af- 
terward figured  in  "  L'Annee  Terrible,"  namely  : 
"  Our  stomach  has  become  the  ark  of  Noah."  At 
the  end  of  the  winter  of  1871,  when  the  problem 
of  feeding  so  large  a  population  had  attained  its 
most  difficult  point,  and  some  philanthropists  had 
proposed  the  use  of  human  flesh,  Victor  Hugo,  at 
a  dinner  in  which  no  meat  of  any  kind  was  to 
be  seen,  improvised  the  following  characteristic 
stanza : 

"  Je  16gue  au  pays,  non  baa  cendre, 
Mais  mon  bifteck,  morceau  de  roi  I 
Femmes,  si  vous  mangez  de  moi, 
Vous  verrez  comme  je  suis  tendre." 


VICTOR  HUGO.  31 

Every  one  remembers  the  memorable  words 
Victor  Hugo  pronounced  (March  8, 1871)  in  favor 
of  the  election  of  Garibaldi  before  the  Assembly 
at  Bordeaux,  and  his  noble  resignation  in  con- 
sequence of  the  ungrateful  vote  rendered  by  that 
body.  He  was  then  struck  by  one  of  the  greatest 
misfortunes  of  his  life.  On  March  18th  he  was 
escorting  to  Paris  the  coffined  body  of  his  son 
Charles,  who  but  a  few  days  previous  had  accom- 
panied him  to  Bordeaux  full  of  life  and  hope. 
The  Commune  had  just  broken  into  open  rebel- 
lion ;  yet  at  the  poet's  arrival  the  revolution  was 
suspended  for  a  few  hours.  The  funeral  crossed 
half  the  city  amid  crowds  of  spectators  whose  si- 
lence bespoke  the  highest  respect  and  the  sincerest 
grief.  This  was  not,  alas  !  the  poet's  last  sorrow. 
In  December,  1873,  he  lost  his  son  Fran9ois  Vic- 
tor. How  lonely  has  the  poet  been  since  !  How  of- 
ten have  his  eyes  moistened  with  tears  in  speaking 
of  the  faithful  companions  of  his  exile!  "I  see 
around  me  a  nation  that  worships  me,"  he  said  to 
me,  when  I  paid  him  my  last  visit ;  "  I  see  a  young 
generation  which  is  thrilled  by  my  word.  I  have 
had  the  fortune  few  men  have  ever  had,  that 
is,  to  assist,  as  it  were,  at  my  own  apotheosis.  But 
what  does  it  all  amount  to?  My  sons  are  here 
no  more  ! "  Fond  as  he  is  of  his  grandchildren, 
George  and  Jeanne,  who  have  already  won  an  en- 
viable celebrity,  and  though  happy  in  their  love, 
his  countenance,  formerly  so  calm  and  serene,  is 
3 


32  FRENCH  MEN   OF  LETTERS. 

often  darkened  with  a  profound  sorrow,  as  though 
everything  was  over  with  him.  Though  they 
have  been  so  much  talked  of,  it  is  next  to  impos- 
sible to  realize  how  much  Victor  Hugo  loves  those 
two  children.  They  are  his  real  masters.  George 
is  a  handsome  boy  with  large  black  eyes,  a  cameo- 
like profile,  thoughtful  countenance,  and  a  lov- 
ing disposition.  Jeanne  is  a  little  girl  with  curly 
golden  hair,  waggish  and  merry,  whose  eyes  be- 
speak sprightliness  and  coquetry.  In  gazing  at 
them  the  poet  once  exclaimed  :  "  Do  you  wish  to 
hear  my  definition  of  paradise? — The  parents 
always  young,  and  the  children  always  small." 
Victor  Hugo  spends  many  hours  playing  with  or 
working  for  them.  I  have  seen  him  build  a  toy 
carriage  which  the  painter  Lefevre  did  not  dis- 
dain to  paint.  He  tells  them  stories  which  would 
form  the  pride  of  "  St.  IS'icholas."  I  heard  him 
tell  them  one  of  the  good  dog  transformed  into 
an  angel  after  his  death,  to  reward  him  for  his 
devotion  to  the  little  girl  whom  he  was  charged 
to  protect,  which  might  be  considered  unortho- 
dox by  some  people,  but  which  I  could  not  forbear 
admiring  for  the  broad  conception  of  morals  by 
which  it  was  evidently  inspired.  He  often  draws 
pictures  for  them,  and  these  are  usually  represen- 
tations of  either  fine  or  ugly  things,  according  as 
the  children  have  been  good  or  naughty.  If  they 
have  studied  and  behaved  well,  he  will  draw  a 
bird,  a  flower,  a  horse,  a  steamboat,  and  so  on  ;  an 


VICTOR  HUGO.  33 

owl,  a  donkey  with  very  long  ears,  a  snake,  the 
sun  in  tears,  and  the  like,  if  they  have  not  learned 
their  lessons. 

There  is  hardly  a  subject  of  which  Victor 
Hugo  likes  so  much  to  speak  as  of  his  children, 
and  he  often  speaks  of  them  with  just  poetical  feel- 
ing. He  likes  to  repeat  their  sayings  and  tell  of 
their  doings  ;  and,  if  these  reveal  any  talent,  he 
feels  prouder  than  he  would  of  his  best  drama. 
Self-satisfaction  has  rarely  asserted  itself  on  the 
poet's  countenance  so  strongly  as  when  he  related 
the  following  questions  that  his  son  Fran9ois  had 
in  his  infancy  put  to  him  :  "  Papa,  why  are  men, 
when  they  are  dead,  placed  under  ground,  and 
why  are  trees,  on  the  contrary,  taken  out  of  the 
ground  ?  "  "  Why  is  it  that  men  write  so  large 
when  they  are  children,  and  so  small  when  they 
are  grown  ?  "  As  it  is  known,  one  of  the  favorite 
means  by  which  Victor  Hugo  amuses  his  children 
is  the  toy  theatre.  I  found  him  on  two  occasions 
working  puppets  and  improvising  a  comedy  for 
their  entertainment ;  and  in  his  house,  Rue  Le 
Rochefoucauld,  a  huge  toy  theatre,  of  his  own 
making,  was  seen  in  the  parlor  by  the  side  of 
a  beautiful  marble  statue  representing  France 
wounded  and  reclining,  under  which  the  follow- 
ing inscription  from  "  Napoleon  le  Petit "  was  en- 
graved :  "  If  she  sleep,  silence  and  uncovered 
heads  ;  if  she  be  dead,  to  your  knees." 

Victor  Hugo  has  changed  his  residence  fre- 


34  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

quently.  He  has  lately  lived  in  Rue  de  Clichy, 
No.  20,  in  a  modest  hotel,  near  the  house  in  which 
he  passed  his  boyhood.  He  seldom  pays  any  visits, 
but  his  friends  and  acquaintances  are  always  wel- 
comed by  him  in  the  evening.  They  are  general- 
ly received  in  a  large  parlor  decorated  with  yel- 
low and  red  tapestry.  On  a  pedestal  in  the  cen- 
ter of  the  room  rises  a  masterpiece  of  Japanese 
art,  an  elephant  raising  its  threatening  proboscis 
and  carrying  a  war-turret  on  its  back.  A  Vene- 
tian luster  hangs  over  it,  the  arms  of  which,  of 
variously  colored  lists  twisted  into  spirals,  are  dec- 
orated with  bright  delicate  flowers.  A  huge  cab- 
inet, inlaid  with  pure  tin,  stands  by  the  fireplace, 
its  design  handsomely  executed,  representing  some 
fabulous  scenes  of  the  "  Roman  de  Renart."  The 
life-sized  portraits  of  Victor  Hugo  and  his  dead 
wife  by  Boulanger — two  masterpieces — hang  from 
the  opposite  wall.  An  admirable  clock  of  the  Louis 
XV.  style,  representing  Time,  stands  on  the  man- 
telpiece, to  the  right  of  which  is  situated  a  green 
velvet  sofa,  the  poet's  ordinary  and  favorite  seat. 
There  he  passes  his  evenings,  attired  in  his  daily 
working  suit,  chatting  with  his  visitors  as  though 
they  were  all  his  comrades.  When  a  lady  is  an- 
nounced, he  rises  and  goes,  gallantly  but  unostenta- 
tiously, to  meet  her,  kisses  her  hand,  welcomes  her 
with  a  charming  phrase,  escorts  her  to  a  seat,  in- 
forms her  in  a  few  words  of  the  topic  on  which  the 
conversation  turns,  and  then  the  latter  is  generally 


ALFRED   DE  MUSSET.  35 

resumed.  About  11  o'clock  a  luncheon  is  served 
in  the  dining-room,  to  which  the  company  ad- 
journs, Victor  Hugo  often  escorting  thither  sev- 
eral ladies  in  succession.  The  conversation  is 
generally  at  an  end  a  little  after  12,  when  Victor 
Hugo  sees  his  visitors  as  far  as  the  vestibule,  and 
occasionly  helps  the  ladies  to  their  cloaks.  These 
informal  receptions  are  attended  by  the  most  illus- 
trious men  in  Paris.  I  have  there  met  Theophile 
Gautier,  Edmond  About,  Louis  Blanc,  Jules  Si- 
mon, Gambetta,  Emile  Augier,  Renan,  Daudet, 
Ars5ne  Houssaye,  Dumas,  Boulanger,  Lefevre, 
and  others.  All  these  people  hail  their  host 
"  Master." 


ALFRED  DE  MUSSET, 

The  life  of  this  eminently  subjective  poet  has 
been  written  for  the  French  public  by  his  brother, 
Paul  de  Musset,  and  for  the  Germans  by  Paul 
Lindau.  The  first  has  produced  a  bright,  racy^ 
but  probably  not  impartial  narrative.  Lindau  is 
as  minute,  exhaustive,  and  critical  as  becomes  a 
German  biographer ;  but  his  book  is  too  heavy 
for  ordinary  digestion.  Beyond  an  essay  by 
Henry  James,  Jr.,  in  his  "French  Poets  and 
Novelists,"  English  literature  possesses  hardly 
anything  of  value  concerning  the  career  and  work 
of  De  Musset ;  and  even  this  is  critical  rather 
than  biographical,  and  it  seems  to  me  superficial. 


36  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

The  author,  though  profound  in  matters  concern- 
ing the  human  heart,  has  clearly  failed  to  appre- 
ciate the  poet's  character  and  the  influences  which 
shaped  it.  Had  Mr.  James  had  ever  so  slight  an 
acquaintance  with  the  life  of  his  subject,  he  would 
never  have  affirmed  that  "  De  Musset's  life  offers 
little  material  for  narrative,"  that  "  he  did  nothing 
in  the  sterner  sense  of  the  word."  Merely  on 
account  of  De  Musset's  refusal  to  accept  the  posi- 
tion of  attache  to  the  French  Embassy  at  Madrid, 
he  has  been  characterized  by  the  American  critic 
as  "inactive,  indolent,  idle." 

It  is,  indeed,  not  every  Saxon  who  can  appre- 
ciate "  that  fineness  of  feeling  which  is  the  pleas- 
ure and  the  pain  "  of  a  poetic  nature  ;  who  can  at 
once  sympathize  with  delicate  susceptibility,  ex- 
quisite tenderness,  nervous  emotion,  and  wild  pas- 
sion :  to  ordinary  natures  all  of  these  mental  con- 
ditions appear  morbid.  It  is  my  opinion  that 
only  a  poet  of  the  highest  order  can  grasp  the 
reality  of  De  Musset,  penetrate  the  sinuosities  of 
liis  manifold  nature,  and  set  down  in  fitting  terms 
the  romance  of  his  life.  Nor  can  a  good  likeness 
of  him  be  drawn  in  a  few  pages.  I  therefore, 
disclaim  all  pretensions  toward  a  critical  study 
or  a  complete  biography  of  De  Musset — tasks  in 
every  way  beyond  my  power — and  aim  only  to 
present  a  few  rationally  linked  facts  and  anec- 
dotes relating  to  his  life. 

The   De   Musset  family  has   a  place   in   the 


ALFRED   DE   MUSSET.  37 

"Livre  d'Or"  of  the  old  French  nobility  ;  but  a 
taste  for  literature  elevated  many  of  its  members 
to  a  rank  that  surpasses  mere  aristocratic  distinc- 
tion. The  poet's  father  was  the  author  of  several 
pamphlets  and  books  of  far  more  importance  than 
the  majority  of  brochures  issued  in  the  pamphlet- 
publishing  eighteenth  century. 

Alfred  was  born  in  1810,  in  the  center  of  Paris, 
near  the  historical  museum  of  Cluny.  When 
questioned  as  to  his  childhood,  he  was  wont  to 
deny  all  claim  to  precocity,  saying  that  he  was  as 
stupid  as  the  general  run  of  children.  The  truth, 
however,  is  that  he  early  displayed  remarkable 
talents.  On  returning  one  Sunday  morning  from 
church,  to  which  his  mother  had  taken  him,  he 
confidently  asked  her  to  be  taken  again  on  the 
following  Sabbath,  to  see  "the  comedy  of  the 
mass."  This  certainly  was  a  notable  saying  for 
a  child,  who,  being  but  three  years  old,  could 
presumably  have  had  no  acquaintance  with  Vol- 
taire. His  brother  relates  that  about  this  time 
Alfred  was  presented  with  a  pair  of  little  red 
shoes,  which  greatly  gratified  his  vanity,  and 
which  he  burned  to  exhibit  in  the  streets.  While 
his  mother  was  arranging  his  long,  light  curls, 
he  exclaimed  petulantly  :  "  Oh  !  do  make  haste, 
mamma,  and  let  me  go  out ;  else,  my  new  shoes 
will  become  old  !  "  Here  was  an  early  exhibition 
of  the  ruling  passion  of  his  life — ^to  enjoy  exist- 
ence as  fast  as  possible. 


38  FREN^Cn   MEN   OF  LETTERS. 

The  precocity  of  his  perceptions  is  sufficiently 
evidenced  by  the  following  anecdote  :  Having 
been  guilty  of  some  misdemeanor,  his  favorite 
aunt,  Nanina,  declared  that  on  a  repetition  of  the 
offense  she  would  cease  to  care  anything  for  him. 

"  You  think  so,"  he  replied,  "  but  you  couldn't 
do  it." 

"Yery  well,  sir,"  said  the  aunt,  assuming  as 
serious  a  mien  as  she  could  command,  "  you  will 
see  whether  I  can."  The  little  fellow  closely 
studied  her  face  for  some  moments,  and  perceiving 
the  ghost  of  a  smile  steal  around  her  lips,  he  threw 
his  arms  about  her  neck  and  exclaimed  : 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  so  ?  Deny  if  you  can  that 
you  love  me  as  well  as  before  ?  " 

That  Dante  could,  at  the  age  of  nine,  know 
what  love  is,  has  been  to  many  a  matter  of  skepti- 
cal astonishment.  Yet  the  passionate  disposition 
of  Alfred  de  Musset  revealed  itself  at  an  even 
earlier  period.  His  affection  for  a  cousin  several 
years  his  senior  bore  all  the  marks  that  distin- 
guish love  in  the  prime  of  youth.  He  asked  her 
parents'  consent  to  their  marriage ;  and,  on  their 
refusing,  he  exacted  from  her  a  promise  to  marry 
him  in  spite  of  all  obstacles,  as  soon  as  his  age 
would  permit  of  his  appearing  before  a  priest.  The 
girl  was  compelled  shortly  afterward  to  follow 
her  parents  to  their  native  place  ;  the  parting  be- 
tween the  lovers  was  heart-rending. 

"  Do  not  forget  me,"  entreated  Clelia. 


ALFRED  DE  MUSSET.  39 

"  Forget  you  ?  "  echoed  the  boy  ;  "  do  you  not 
know  that  your  name  is  engraved,  as  with  a  knife, 
upon  my  heart  ?  " 

Alfred  was  then  five  years  old.  Though  he 
had  in  many  ways  evinced  remarkable  aptitude, 
he  had  been  too  restless  to  devote  himself  consis- 
tently to  study.  In  order,  however,  to  be  able  to 
correspond  with  his  "  future  wife,"  as  he  called 
his  cousin,  he  all  at  once  displayed  wonderful 
assiduity  in  learning  to  write.  When,  some  years 
afterward,  the  young  lady  was  married,  it  was 
deemed  prudent  to  keep  the  news  from  him,  so 
strong  his  love  had  grown  for  her  ;  and,  when  he 
accidentally  discovered  the  fact,  it  took  him  a  con- 
siderable time  to  become  reconciled  to  his  fate.  In 
1836  the  friendly  relations  between  the  De  Mus- 
set  family  and  the  husband  of  Mme.  Moulin — the 
Clelia  of  Alfred's  boyhood — were  disturbed  by  the 
prospect  of  a  lawsuit  growing  out  of  a  business 
difficulty.  Alfred  started  for  Clermont  and  un- 
expectedly presented  himself  at  his  cousin's  home 
to  plead  for  peace  between  the  two  families.  At 
sight  of  Clelia  he  could  do  nothing  but  burst  into 
tears.  The  recollections  of  his  childhood  quite 
overcame  his  emotional  nature,  and  his  tears  ef- 
fectually healed  the  breach  between  the  two 
families. 

That  which  did  most  to  soothe  his  juvenile 
heart-ache  was  the  perusal  of  the  "Arabian 
Nights "  and  legends  of    chivalry.      And  then 


40  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

about  this  time,  together  with  his  brother  Paul 
and  his  playmates,  he  used  to  organize  scenic 
representations  of  the  legends  he  had  read  ;  and 
with  such  fidelity  were  the  battles  and  reconnoi- 
ters  rendered  that  black  eyes  and  bruised  limbs 
were  common  enough  among  the  actors. 

Alfred's  education  began  at  home,  under  the 
tuition  of  one  M.  Bouvrain,  who,  besides  being  a 
scholarly  teacher,  was  a  person  of  great  tact.  He 
had  the  gift  of  imparting  knowledge  without 
seeming  to  do  so,  and  his  lessons  to  his  young 
pupils  were  often  given  while  walking  or  romp- 
ing. In  two  years  Alfred  had  learned  enough  to 
enter  the  College  Henri  IV.,  where,  though  the 
youngest  among  them,  De  Musset  distinguished 
himself  from  the  outset  above  all  his  fellow  stu- 
dents. Failing  on  one  occasion  to  win  the  first 
place  of  honor,  the  intervention  of  his  mother 
was  necessary  to  console  him.  His  successes 
tended  to  make  the  college  an  uncomfortable 
place  for  him,  the  other  pupils  enviously  forming 
a  league  against  the  "  frail  little  blond "  who 
so  easily  carried  off  the  prizes  for  which  they  so 
ardently  competed.  On  leaving  school  he  was 
every  day  subjected  to  gibes  and  sometimes  even 
to  blows,  a  treatment  that  would  have  vitiated 
the  meekest  boy  in  the  world.  It  was  through 
the  mediation  of  Leon  Gobert,  a  stout  boy  whose 
life  had  once  been  saved  by  the  De  Musset 
brothers,  that  the  conspiracy  was  broken  up.    The 


ALFRED  DE  MUSSET.  41 

first  time  he  saw  the  crowd  bullying  Alfred,  he 
threw  himself  into  the  midst  of  the  tormentors 
and,  with  a  few  skillful  blows,  made  such  an  im- 
pression that  the  "  little  cherub  "  was  never  again 
molested  by  his  fellow  pupils. 

Alfred  was  so  conscientious,  so  anxious  to  do 
his  work  well,  that  at  every  fresh  step  he  hesi- 
tated and  trembled.  His  yearning  after  success 
and  his  despair  of  ever  attaining  it  were  frequent- 
ly the  cause  of  a  gloominess  which  seemed  unac- 
countable in  a  youth  of  his  age.  His  nervousness 
was  not  to  be  cured  by  habit  nor  by  success.  He 
became  timid,  excitable,  diffident  to  a  degree 
which  appears  to  have  influenced  bis  after-life. 
The  slightest  emotion  would  frequently  drive 
him  into  a  nervous  fit.  Once,  when  fourteen 
years  of  age,  he  was  following  his  brother  in  a 
hunting  excursion.  Alfred  carried  an  old  shot- 
gun, which  exploded  and  he  came  near  lodging  the 
entire  charge  in  the  limbs  of  his  brother.  Such 
was  the  effect  of  this  accident  that  he  was  seized 
with  a  fever  which  could  not  be  subdued  for  sev- 
eral days.  Of  his  great  love  for  the  chase  little 
was  now  left,  and  the  year  1824  was  ever  after- 
ward mentioned  by  him  as  "  the  year  in  which  he 
just  missed  killing  his  brother." 

It  will  be  curious  to  follow  De  Musset  in  the 
philosophical  studies  which  he  began  in  his  six- 
teenth year.  His  reasoning  faculties  had  already 
attained  a  wonderful  expansion.     No  demonstra- 


42  FRENCH   MEN  OF   LETTERS. 

tions  which  his  professors  could  offer  were  for 
him  sufficient,  and  he  sought  far  and  wide  for 
fresh  books  of  philosophy.  While  studying  such 
works,  he  would  begin,  as  his  brother  tells  us,  by 
conscientiously  playing  the  role  of  a  disciple,  in 
order  to  master  the  doctrine  of  the  authors.  Not 
content  with  studying  each  system,  he  would 
adopt  it,  and,  if  possible,  practice  it.  Suddenly, 
however,  his  reason  would  object  to  some  tenet. 
Doubt  would  enter  his  mind,  and  he  would  be- 
come successively  a  critic  and  a  contradictor.  "  I 
have  seen  him  pass,"  Paul  de  Musset  says,  "  from 
Descartes  to  Spinoza,  from  Kant  to  the  new  phi- 
losophies of  Cabanis  and  Maine  de  Biran.  In  his 
search  for  the  beautiful  he  followed  the  same 
method  ;  in  the  commencement  always  enjoying 
heartily  that  which  pleased  him,  growing  enthu- 
siastic in  his  devotion  to  the  objects  of  his  admira- 
tion, and  finally  examining  and  criticising  them." 
It  was  to  him  a  sad  necessity,  that  of  deter- 
mining upon  a  profession.  Law  he  found  too 
dry,  and,  as  for  medicine,  the  practical  study  of 
anatomy  inspired  him  with  an  unconquerable  dis- 
gust. For  many  days  he  remained  closeted,  alone 
with  his  meditations.  To  his  brother,  who  in- 
quired the  cause  of  his  depression,  he  answered, 
"  Alas  !  I  feel  that  I  shall  never  amount  to  any- 
thing. I  shall  never  bring  myself  to  practice  any 
profession.  Man  is  too  narrow  as  he  is  for  me  to 
consent  to  become  a  specialist."     His  talent  for 


ALFRED  DE  MUSSET.  43 

drawing,  however,  suggested  to  him  the  idea  of 
becoming  a  painter.  His  family  meanwhile  had 
moved  into  the  neighborhood  of  Paris.  Alfred 
used  then  to  go  to  the  city  every  morning  to 
spend  the  day  studying  in  the  atelier  of  a  great 
artist — Delaroche,  if  our  memory  does  not  fail  us 
— returning  in  the  evening  to  Auteuil  by  the  love- 
ly paths  of  the  Bois  de  Boulogne.  A  book  was 
his  usual  companion.  One  day  he  carried  with 
him  a  copy  of  Andre  Chenier's  poems.  That  day 
seemingly  determined  his  career.  Charmed  by 
the  melancholy  numbers  of  the  unfortunate  poet 
of  the  Revolution,  he  forgot  everything  until  it 
became  too  dark  for  him  to  see  to  read.  When 
he  reached  home  he  wrote  his  first  poem. 

It  is  needless  to  observe  that,  in  thought  and 
form,  the  first  efforts  of  the  youthful  singer  re- 
flected the  influence  of  the  romanticists,  of  whom 
Hugo  was  the  leader,  and  among  whom  De  Mus- 
set  shortly  made  his  appearance.  Sainte-Beuve 
was  the  first  to  call  the  attention  of  his  fellow 
innovators  to  "the  youngster  full  of  genius." 
Some  poems  which  he  read  at  their  meetings 
quickly  won  their  applause.  The  "  Ballad  to  the 
Moon  "  created  quite  a  sensation  among  them  and 
their  opponents.  The  poet  displayed  a  marked 
originality,  whatever  may  be  the  opinion  of  critics 
who  maintain  that  there  is  nothing  new  under  the 
sun. 

From  the  period  of  feverish  exaltation  induced 


44  FRENCH   MEN   OF  LETTERS. 

by  his  early  literary  successes  dates  the  poet's  first 
love  affair,  if  his  boyish  passion  for  Clelia  is  not 
recognized  as  such.  But  he  was  forced  to  acknowl- 
edge ere  long  that  his  devotion  was  anything  but 
reciprocated.  He  had  been  used  as  a  means  to 
divert  the  attention  of  society  from  another  in- 
trigue in  which  the  lady  was  involved.  The  ad- 
venture furnished  him  with  the  materials  for  "Le 
Chandelier,"  a  play  which  appeared  seven  years 
afterward.  I  do  not  think  I  am  far  from  the  truth 
in  looking  upon  this  cruel  deception  as  having  been 
the  chief  cause  of  his  abandoning  himself  to  every 
species  of  excess.  Drinking,  gambling,  living  in 
great  style,  with  its  kindred  dissipations,  became 
now  the  order  of  his  life,  though  he  continued  to 
study  and  to  write.  His  morals  fell  to  a  low  grade. 
His  father,  alarmed,  sought  to  turn  him  from  his 
evil  ways  by  finding  him  employment  in  the  oflice 
of  a  commission-merchant.  Not  daring  to  disobey, 
the  young  man  entered  a  servitude  so  galling  that 
he  determined  to  try  to  realize  something  by  sell- 
ing his  poetry.  He  took  the  manuscript  of  his 
"  Contes  d'Espagne,"  his  first  volume  of  verse,  to 
the  publisher  XJrbain  Canel,  who  signified  his  will- 
ingness to  enter  into  negotiations,  but  said  that 
the  collection  offered  would  not  make  a  volume 
of  the  ordinary  size.  At  least  five  hundred  lines 
more  were  deemed  necessary.  Two  weeks  later 
De  Musset  had  completed  "  Mardoche,"  one  of  his 
best  efforts.    When  the  "  Contes  d'Espagne  "  were 


ALFRED  DE  MUSSET.  45 

published,  it  was  surprising  to  note  the  sensation 
produced  by  their  advent  as  compared  to  the  di- 
mensions of  the  volume.  Crucified  by  the  classi- 
cists, glorified  by  the  romanticists,  De  Musset  be- 
came as  popular  almost  as  Hugo,  and  was  the 
acknowledged  poet  of  ladies. 

His  freedom  once  regained,  he  felt  himself 
bound  to  prove  to  his  father  that  he  could  sup- 
port himself  while  he  gratified  his  literary  tastes. 
But  poetry  has  rarely  been  a  source  of  wealth. 
This  De  Musset  understood,  and,  consequently, 
he  tried  the  stage.  His  "  Venetian  Night "  was, 
however,  a  failure.  An  incident  foreign  to  the 
intrinsic  merit  of  the  piece  contributed  in  no 
small  degree  to  wreck  his  hopes.  The  success  of 
a  first  performance  hangs  by  a  thread.  Mile.  B6- 
ranger,  who  played  the  leading  r51e,  in  a  scene  in 
which  she  was  to  appear  in  a  beautiful  costume 
of  white  satin,  thoughtlessly  leaned  against  a  lat- 
tice upon  which  the  green  paint  had  not  yet  had 
time  to  dry.  Fancy  the  effect  upon  the  audience, 
when  she  appeared  with  the  whole  back  of  her 
dress  striped  with  irregular  cross-lines  of  green. 
The  noise  deepened  into  a  storm,  and  the  play 
was  doomed.  "  I  would  not  have  believed,"  De 
Musset  exclaimed,  "  that  a  Parisian  audience  con- 
tained so  many  idiots "  ;  and,  to  a  friend  who 
asked  whether  he  would  not  write  further  for  the 
stage,  he  replied,  "  No  ;  I  have  bidden  the  mena- 
gerie  farewell."    And  none  of  the  plays  and  prov- 


46  FRENCH   MEN   OF   LETTERS. 

erbs  which  he  afterward  wrote  were  intended  for 
dramatic  representation,  although  in  the  last  years 
of  his  life  they  were,  without  his  active  interven- 
tion, produced  on  the  stage  with  the  most  flatter- 
ing success.  Ceasing  to  wi'ite  plays,  De  Musset 
devoted  himself  to  the  composing  of  those  stories 
which  were  the  delight  of  the  readers  of  the  "  Re- 
vue des  Deux  Mondes." 

The  turning-point  in  De  Musset's  career  was 
the  affair  with  George  Sand.  It  i§  our  purpose  to 
revert  only  to  such  circumstances  as  are  necessary 
to  the  regular  continuation  of  our  narrative,  and 
without  unearthing  the  scandals  which  have  asso- 
ciated themselves  with  this  portion  of  the  poet's 
history.  "Rolla"  had  just  convulsed  Paris. 
George  Sand  and  De  Musset  met  at  a  dinner 
which  was  given  to  the  contributors  to  the  "  Re- 
vue des  Deux  Mondes."  Their  acquaintance  speed- 
ily ripened  into  a  love  worthy  of  two  such  great 
souls.  For  a  short  time  their  existence  was  a  gay 
and  happy  dream.  Who  has  ever  loved  well  and 
not  longed  for  solitude  ?  They  first  sought  refuge 
in  the  historical  shades  of  the  forest  of  Fontaine- 
bleau  ;  but  George  Sand  had  made  arrangements 
to  visit  Italy  during  the  approaching  winter,  and 
could  not  dream  of  a  separation  from  De  Musset. 
His  mother  was  much  opposed  to  his  departure, 
but  so  eloquently  did  the  great  Frenchwoman  plead 
his  cause  that  she  was  enabled  to  leave  Paris  with 
the  young  poet  attached  to  her  as  her  private  sec- 


ALFRED   DE   MUSSET.  47 

retary.  The  first  few  letters  which  De  Musset 
wrote  to  his  relatives  showed  that  his  extraordi- 
nary intelligence  had  received  a  wonderful  impulse 
from  the  grand  sights  which  he  daily  witnessed. 
A  silence  of  nearly  two  months  ensued,  which  was 
finally  broken  by  the  arrival  of  a  letter,  "  of  which 
the  wavering  handwriting,"  says  Paul  De  Musset, 
"  and  the  tone  of  profound  sadness,"  told  but  too 
well  the  deplorable  tidings.  Hardly  recovered 
from  a  brain-fever,  the  poor  fellow  announced  his 
resolution  to  leave  Venice  as  soon  as  his  health 
would  permit.  "  I  will  bring  home,"  he  wrote, 
"a  diseased  body,  a  wasted  soul,  and  a  bleeding 
heart  which  yet  loves  you  evermore.  For  Heav- 
en's sake,  prepare  for  me  some  room  other  than 
my  own.  I  could  not  again  behold  it  without 
thinking  what  weariness  and  grief  live  within  its 
four  walls." 

He  reached  home  a  mere  wreck.  When  he 
first  attempted  to  relate  to  his  brother  the  story 
of  his  illness  and  the  true  cause  of  his  return,  his 
face  turned  white  and  he  fell  in  a  syncope,  the 
nervous  attack  being  so  strong  that  for  a  month 
he  did  not  dare  again  to  approach  the  subject. 
For  many  months  he  acted  like  one  demented. 
He  would  often  exclude  his  own  people  from  his 
room,  suspecting  them  of  treason  and  accusing 
them  of  indifference,  then  passionately  reproach 
himself  a  moment  afterward  for  his  ingratitude. 
His  sister's  playing  upon  the  piano  alone  seemed 
4 


48  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

to  have  the  power  of  soothing  him,  especially 
when  she  played  the  concertos  of  Hummel.  He 
would  on  such  occasions  silently  steal  into  the 
parlor,  sit  in  a  corner,  and  listen  calmly  to  the 
music.  Sometimes,  by  conversing  with  him  upon 
the  subject  of  music,  he  was  made  to  prolong 
these  visits  ;  but,  did  a  single  word  remind  him  of 
his  grief,  he  would  rush  almost  frantically  to  his 
seclusion,  which  nothing  could  induce  him  to  leave 
again  that  day.  His  endeavors  to  overcome  his 
grief  by  an  effort  of  the  will  were  unavailing. 
Time  alone  could  heal — and  at  best  imperfectly — 
his  almost  mortal  wound. 

It  is  easy  to  imagine  what  had  at  Venice 
changed  his  bright  dreams  into  the  somber  night 
of  disease  and  despair.  The  love  of  two  great 
beings  is  seldom  crowned  by  a  happy  end.  It  may 
live  in  the  breast  of  each,  but  deserts  a  pair.  At 
whose  door  the  principal  blame  of  the  rupture  lies 
is  an  open  question.  After  a  careful  study  of 
both  characters,  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  the  double  life,  which  in  the  beginning  was 
by  De  Musset  rendered  exceedingly  hard,  was  in 
the  end  made  impossible  by  George  Sand.  De 
Musset's  over-sensitive  temperament  must  have 
sorely  tried  the  patience  of  his  companion.  He 
was  as  petulant  and  unreasonable  as  he  was  high- 
ly endowed.  One  single  remark  which  I  heard 
from  the  lips  of  George  Sand  in  the  last  years  of 
her  life  will  throw  some   light   on   the   matter. 


ALFRED  DE   MUSSET.  49 

Speaking  of  jealous  people,  while  doing  justice  to 
the  other  qualities  of  the  poet,  she  said  she  had 
never  met  a  man  who  could  be  half  so  jealous  as 
Alfred  de  Musset.  That  he  was  exceedingly  sus- 
picious and  egotistic  can  scarcely  be  doubted. 
Like  Othello,  he  loved  not  wisely  but  too  well. 
He  was  as  tyrannical,  exacting,  and  uncompromis- 
ing in  his  wild  loves  as  he  was  meek  and  yielding 
in  his  friendships.  Previous  associations  had  un- 
fortunately given  him  an  unfavorable  opinion  of 
women. 

No  one,  moreover,  can  love  as  De  Musset  did, 
without  thinking,  perhaps,  that  his  love  is  only 
partially  returned.  If  the  "  Confessions  d'un  En- 
fant du  Si6cle"  is  in  any  measure — as  it  undoubt- 
edly is — an  autobiography,  it  will  easily  be  under- 
stood how  impossible  it  was  for  a  woman  like 
Mme.  Dudevant  to  endure  for  any  length  of  time 
a  life  which  was  made  so  uniformly  miserable  by 
De  Musset.  With  no  woman  whom  he  loved 
could  De  Musset  long  remain  at  peace  :  the  two 
were  compelled  at  last  to  renounce  all  dignity  or 
to  separate.  If  there  was  any  treason  on  the  part 
of  George  Sand,  it  certainly  occurred  when  the 
poet  had  to  the  best  of  his  ability  alienated  her 
affection  from  him. 

Twenty  years  later,  relates  Paul  de  Musset, 
when  one  evening  the  conversation  turned  upon  di- 
vorce, which,  as  is  known,  does  not  exist  in  France, 
the  poet  sadly  remarked :  "  Our  marriage   laws 


50  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

are  not  so  bad  as  they  seem.  There  has  been  a 
moment  in  my  life  when  I  would  gladly  have 
given  up  ten  years  of  my  mortal  span  to  have 
seen  divorce  inscribed  in  our  law,  in  order  that  I 
might  have  married  a  woman  who  was  separated 
from  her  husband.  Had  my  desire  been  gratified, 
six  months  later  I  should  have  blown  my  brains 
out." 

The  facility  with  which  De  Musset  passed 
from  one  love  to  another  is  severely  censured  by 
the  hypercritical.  Are  these  people  sure  that  the 
poet's  loves  were  not  all  worthy  the  name  ?  Can 
they  understand  the  longing  need  of  a  great 
wounded  heart  to  drown  its  soitow  in  the  billows 
of  new  emotions  ?  Can  they  realize  the  wider 
expansion  that  is  necessary  for  a  heart  and  a  soul 
wider  than  their  own  ?  The  heart  of  a  favorite 
child  of  nature  never  grows  old :  the  more  love 
fails  it,  the  more  it  yearns  for  sympathy.  Such  a 
heart  grasps  at  the  very  shadow  of  love  as  a 
drowning  man  grasps  at  a  straw  ;  like  the  way- 
farer in  the  desert,  it  searches  life's  sands  for  the 
oasis  whence  it  may  quench  its  thirst.  Can  not 
the  narrow-minded  critics  of  De  Musset  compre- 
hend that  a  man  of  the  loftiest  mold  may  love 
not  a  woman,  but  the  woman — not  a  passing  love, 
but  love  itself  ? 

But,  to  resume  my  narrative.  After  a  year's 
surrender  to  sorrow,  De  Musset  again  began 
to   address  himself  to  work.     Naturally  enough, 


ALFRED   DE   MUSSET.  51 

the  first  offspring  of  his  renewed  activity  was 
the  child  of  his  grief.  "  La  Nuit  de  Mai "  is  a 
production  of  genuine  feeling,  grand  enough  to 
rank  beside  the  profoundest  effort  of  Leopardi. 
The  passage  where  the  pelican  bares  its  breast  to 
give  life  to  its  young,  which  is  intended  as  an 
image  of  the  poet's  relation  to  his  readers,  is  one 
of  De  Musset's  noblest  conceptions. 

The  "  Night  of  May  "  was  written  on  a  night 
in  the  spring  of  1835.  As  was  frequently  his 
habit  whenever  he  afterward  wrote  poetry,  his 
room  was  ablaze  with  light  ;  he  donned  his  best 
clothes,  and  had  supper  for  two  served  in  his 
room,  as  though  his  muse  were  actually  about  to 
pay  him  a  visit.  On  the  following  day  he  slept 
till  evening.  On  awakening,  he  examined  his 
poem,  and,  Ending  nothing  to  alter,  he  again 
passed  into  a  state  of  morbid  apathy  from  which 
all  the  pleasures  of  Sardanapalian  Paris  could  not 
arouse  him.  We  agree  with  Paul  Lindau,  that 
the  blight  of  De  Musset's  life  was  the  unfortunate 
deno4ment  of  his  intimacy  with  George  Sand ; 
but  we  can  not  countenance  his  further  assertion 
that  the  remainder  of  the  poet's  life  was  devoted 
to  erratic  efforts  to  drown  the  recollections  of  his 
misfortune.  He  afterward  loved  as  sincerely  as 
he  did  the  first  time. 

In  the  month  of  August,  in  the  same  year,  De 
Musset  began  to  write  his  celebrated  "  Confes- 
sions   d'un    Enfant   du    Siecle."      Although   his 


52  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

brother  Paul  warns  us  against  regarding  this  as 
a  personal  revelation,  we  have  it  from  some  inti- 
mate friends  of  the  poet,  suclt  as  the  Princess 
Belgiojoso  and  £mile  Augier,  that  the  book  is  not 
only  the  expression  of  the  poet's  private  feelings, 
but  contains^  under  the  cover  of  well-disguised 
events,  clear  allusions  to  his  youth.  It  would  be 
wrong,  however,  to  regard  it  as  nothing  more 
than  a  personal  narrative.  All  here  is  not  remi- 
niscence. The  author  has  studied  everybody  and 
everything  that  moved  about,  and  in  the  "Con- 
fessions "  has  most  philosophically  condensed  his 
impressions  as  a  diagnosis  of  the  moral  diseases  of 
our  age. 

Like  all  men  of  boundless  feeling,  De  Musset 
was  essentially  the  creature  of  impressions.  He 
could  not  live  on  books  alone.  Fortunio  again 
bravely  trusted  himself  to  the  heart  of  a  woman. 
For  him,  to  love  and  be  loved  was  the  apotheosis 
of  life — ay,  life  itself.  A  second  passion  sprang 
phcenix-like  from  the  ashes  of  the  first.  But  his 
new  happiness  was  doomed  to  short  duration. 
The  poem,  "  La  Nuit  de  Decembre,"  so  gloomy 
and  mournful  in  tone,  is  linked  with  this  episode. 
The  lady  could  not  but  be  touched  by  the  elo- 
quent appeal  of  his  poetry.  In  a  chance  meeting 
he  was  forgiven,  and  she  again  consented  to  see 
the  poet,  provided  he  would  henceforward  regard 
her  as  simply  a  friend.  De  Musset  kept  his 
promise  for  an  unexpected  length  of  time  ;  but 


ALFRED  DE   MUSSET.  53 

he  sought  relief  in  poetry  for  the  passion  which 
he  could  not  control.  The  stanzas  "  A  Ninon " 
roused  the  lady  to  the  dangers  of  playing  at 
friendship.  In  a  moment  of  forgetfulness  she 
acknowledged  her  love  for  De  Musset,  when  her 
duty  to  another  should  for  ever  have  sealed  her 
lips.  After  many  days  of  struggle,  they  both 
heroically  determined  to  sacrifice  all  personal  feel- 
ing to  the  happiness  of  the  man  who  was  most 
entitled  to  their  consideration  and  respect.  This 
romance  found  echo  in  De  Musset's  novel  "  Em- 
meline  "  and  in  his  "  Lettre  a  Lamartine  " — the 
latter  assuredly  one  of  the  most  enduring  monu- 
ments of  his  fame.  After  the  publication  of  this 
poem,  the  poet  received  a  beautiful  Sevres  vase 
with  a  note  which  contained  the  following  para- 
graph : 

"  Did  you  know  into  what  state  the  perusal  of 
your  *  Lettre  '  has  thrown  me,  you  would  regret 
ever  having  said  that  your  heart  was  stolen  by  a 
woman's  caprice.  It  is  from  true  love,  not  from 
caprice,  that  we  both  have  suffered.  Never  offend 
me  by  doubting  it.  At  this  very  moment  learn 
that,  did  I  think  only  of  myself,  I  should  gladly 
dry  the  tears  that  blind  my  eyes,  and  leave  every- 
thing to  lose  myself  with  you.  I  can  well  tell 
you  this  now,  for,  if  you  love  me,  you  will  spare 
me  remorse." 

During  the  years  1837  and  1838  De  Musset 
led  a  peaceful  life.     His  acquaintance  with  a  cer-- 


54  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

tain  aged  lady,  whom  he  called  "  godmother,"  as 
she  was  indeed  a  second  mother  to  him,  con- 
tributed largely  to  impart  a  certain  order  to  his 
otherwise  irregular  instincts.  He  worked  calmly 
and  constantly.  He  bore  with  unusual  patience 
the  disappointments  and  petty  miseries  of  life, 
and  derived  immense  relief  from  study  and  com- 
position. To  this  epoch  belongs  the  "  Nuit  d'Oc- 
tobre."  He  now  resumed  his  series  of  short  novels 
for  the  "  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes,"  as  well  as  his 
comical  proverbs.  While  writing  an  ideal  story, 
"  Les  Deux  Mattresses,"  he  happened  to  gamble, 
and  lost  a  considerable  sum  of  money.  Thought- 
ful and  sad,  he  returned  home  to  closet  himself  in 
his  room.  The  next  day,  as  he  was  severely  re- 
proaching himself  for  this  escapade,  his  mother 
entered,  placed  a  glass  filled  with  loose  flowers 
upon  his  desk,  and  said  jestingly,  "You  owe  me 
for  these  four  sous."  He  had  not  a  sou  left. 
Tears  filled  his  eyes  as  she  retired.  "  Ah  ! "  he 
exclaimed,  "  I  have  at  last  something  true  to  write 
upon.  I  shall  not  deceive  myself  by  relating  what 
I  feel."  And  he  set  himself  to  the  writing  of  the 
exquisite  pages  on  the  joys  of  a  poor  man,  which 
are  perhaps  the  most  eloquent  he  ever  conceived. 
In  January,  1839,  as  he  was  preparing  for 
press  his  novel "  Le  Chevalier  de  Croiselles,"  he  ex- 
claimed in  his  brother's  presence,  "  Finis  Prosae," 
meaning  that  he  would  never  again  write  any- 
thing in  prose.     Such,  however,  was  his  embar- 


ALFRED  DE  MUSSET.  55 

rassed  condition  that  he  was  persuaded  by  his 
brother  to  sign  with  M.  Buloz  a  contract  by  which 
he  bound  himself  to  write  three  new  novels.  This 
engagement  weighed  upon  him  like  the  mountains 
upon  the  fabled  Titan.  He  would  frequently  fly 
into  a  passion,  and  utter  the  most  terrible  invec- 
tives that  his  imagination  could  frame  against 
M.  Buloz  and  the  other  parties  to  the  agreement. 
"  You  have  made  me  a  mere  thinking  machine," 
said  he  to  his  brother,  "  a  convict  condemned  to 
hard  labor.  Give  me  back  my  creditors  and  my 
embarrassments.  I  want  debts.  I  prefer  starving 
to  this  hack  work."  In  his  moments  of  calm  he 
willingly  acknowledged  the  benefits  which  he  had 
received  from  M.  Buloz,  but  could  never  bring 
himself  to  commence  the  stipulated  work.  His 
conduct  in  this  instance  was  certainly  inexcusable. 
As  a  substitute  for  the  obnoxious  fictions,  he  un- 
dertook to  write  a  species  of  autobiography.  He 
seemingly  had  made  up  his  mind  to  kill  himself 
upon  the  adjustment  of  his  contract  with  Buloz. 
It  is  greatly  to  be  regretted  that  the  "Fallen 
Poet,"  as  he  had  called  his  autobiography,  was  de- 
stroyed by  De  Musset  before  his  death.  The  few 
pages  which  escaped  destruction  are  quoted  from 
by  Paul,  and  are  sublime  in  their  wildness.  Here 
is  the  introduction  : 

"  Although  the  motive  by  which  you  are  ani- 
mated be  a  paltry  one — that  of  mere  curiosity — 
you  shall  know  about  me  all  you  desire.    You  are 


56  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

almost  unknown  to  me.  Your  pity  or  your  sym- 
.pathy  is  to  me  entirely  useless.  For  your  com- 
ments I  care  even  less,  as  I  shall  not  hear  them. 
I  will  nevertheless  bare  my  heart  to  you  as 
frankly  and  as  willingly  as  though  you  were  my 
bosom  friends.  Be  neither  surprised  nor  flattered 
by  my  candor.  I  carry  a  burden  that  crushes  me, 
and  in  talking  to  you  I  shake  the  load  before  free- 
ing myself  of  it. 

"  Were  I  a  poet,  what  a  recital  could  I  offer 
you  !  Had  Byron  to  depict  my  sufferings,  here 
in  these  solitudes,  face  to  face  with  these  moun- 
tains, what  would  not  such  a  man  as  he  tell  you  ? 
What  sobbings  would  you  hear  !  These  very  gla- 
ciers would  thrill  with  them  !  The  valleys  around 
would  be  filled  with  them,  and  from  these  eternal 
peaks  their  echo  would  roll  through  the  universe. 
But  Byron  would  tell  you  all  this  in  the  open  air, 
from  the  ridge  of  an  abyss ;  I,  gentlemen — ^it  is 
from  the  window  of  a  room  in  a  miserable  hotel 
that  I  am  compelled  to  speak  to  you.  I  have  to 
use  the  rude  stringless  instrument  by  every  one  so 
much  abused.  My  business  is  to  write  prose,  to 
utter  my  unspeakable  grief  in  a  style  suited  to  a 
feuilleton,  seated  on  a  stump-bed,  before  a  fire 
dying  in  the  stove.  But  be  it  so.  I  like  to  clothe 
in  rags  the  sorrowful  romance  that  is  the  history 
of  my  life,  and  to  throw  the  fragment  of  the 
sword  that  clove  my  heart  into  the  comer  of  a 
hovel. 


ALFRED  DE  MUSSET.  57 

"  Do  not  fancy  that  my  misfortunes  have  been 
of  an  extraordinary  kind.  They  have  not  been 
those  of  a  hero,  and  are  unfit  for  epic  treatment. 
They  would  only  furnish  good  material  for  a 
novel  or  a  melodrama.  You  hear  the  wind  that 
whistles  without  and  the  rain  that  patters  at  your 
window.  Listen  to  me  as  you  do  to  the  wind  and 
rain ;  I  ask  no  more.  I  have  been  a  poet,  a  painter, 
and  a  musician.  My  sorrows  are  those  of  a  man. 
Read  them  as  you  would  a  newspaper." 

Beyond  a  second  volume  of  poems,  published 
under  the  title  of  "Un  Spectacle  dans  un  Fau- 
teuil,"  Alfred  de  Musset  produced  comparatively 
little  in  the  later  years  of  his  life.  It  was  not 
that  the  verve  of  Fantasio  had  deserted  him.  De- 
spite all  that  has  been  said  to  the  contrary,  his 
talent  was  not  exhausted.  The  little  he  did  proves 
the  reverse.  His  last  productions  were  the  most 
perfect.  The  true  reason  of  his  silence  was  the 
unconquerable  griefs  which  new  disappointments 
had  brought  upon  him.  Many  of  his  dearest 
friends  were  dead,  and  others  were  far  away. 
The  public  did  not  greet  his  productions  with 
the  enthusiasm  of  former  times.  Sainte-Beuve, 
his  former  friend  and  patron,  had  deserted  him. 
Lamartine  had  broken  his  promise,  and  for  six 
years  had  neglected  to  answer  his  famous  letter. 
The  literature  of  fiction  he  saw  defiled  by  a  horde 
of  sensational  scribblers,  who  ministered  to  a  cor- 
rupted   public  taste.      Rachel,   he    fancied,   ill- 


58  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

treated  him  ;  wliat  more  was  wanted  to  render 
him  indifferent  to  praise  or  blame  ?  Disenchanted 
and  disgusted,  he  would  exclaim  with  a  sigh,  "  I 
am  doomed  to  see  nothing  but  the  wrong  side  of 
all  my  medals."  A  pulmonary  disease,  contracted 
in  1842,  had  left  its  traces  upon  his  constitution, 
seriously  affecting  his  nervous  system,  and  pro- 
ducing in  the  end  a  disease  of  the  heart  which 
resulted  in  his  death.  We  can  see  how  unjust 
was  the  charge  of  voluntary  idleness  preferred 
against  him  by  certain  of  his  contemporaries.  No 
one  ever  dared  to  reproach  Goethe  with  having 
laid  aside  the  poet's  pen,  and  amusing  himself  for 
several  years  with  scientific  studies  which  certain- 
ly yielded  no  striking  discoveries.  Though  writ- 
ing little  up  to  the  time  of  his  death,  Alfred  de 
Musset  never  neglected  study,  giving  to  it  an  at- 
tention more  serious  than  was  consistent  with  his 
impaired  health. 

Having  mentioned  the  name  of  Rachel,  we 
can  not  forbear  recalling  a  few  facts  concerning 
her  intimacy  with  De  Musset.  From  her  very 
debut  he  had  been  struck  with  her  wonderful 
talent,  and  he  became  her  defender  against  those 
who  upheld  the  stale  conventionalities  of  the 
classic  school  as  well  as  against  the  apostles  of 
the  so-called  "  Drama  of  the  Future,"  who  spoke 
of  tragedy  as  an  outworn  form  of  art.  The 
two  were  created  seemingly  for  the  perfect 
comprehension  of  each  other.     The  poet  was  to 


ALFRED   DE  MUSSET.  59 

write  tragedies  and  dramas  for  tlie  actress ;  he 
indeed  began  this  work  ;  but  disagreements  and 
misunderstandings  again  interfered  with  a  har- 
mony from  which,  in  all  likelihood,  some  wonder- 
ful performances  would  have  resulted.  Peace 
was  several  times  made  and  broken.  One  day  in 
April,  1848,  Rachel  invited  De  Musset  to  dine 
with  herself  and  some  guests  of  high  social  posi- 
tion, both  by  wealth  and  rank.  The  actress  wore 
a  superb  ring,  the  exquisite  carving  of  which 
doubled  the  value  of  the  gem  set  in  it.  In  an- 
swer to  the  endless  praises  which  the  ring  called 
forth,  Rachel  then  and  there  put  it  up  at  auction. 
In  a  few  moments  the  bids  rose  from  five  hundred 
to  three  thousand  francs.  De  Musset  said  not  a 
word :  his  slender  purse  forbade  his  competing 
with  the  wealthy  gentlemen  about  him. 

"And  you,  monsieur;  don't  you  bid?"  said 
the  actress  to  De  Musset.  "Let  us  see — how 
much  do  you  offer  ?  " 

"  My  heart,"  he  replied. 

"  The  ring  is  yours,"  replied  Rachel,  laying  it 
on  his  plate.  The  dinner  over,  De  Musset,  think- 
ing the  joke  had  gone  far  enough,  offered  the 
ring  back  to  Rachel.  "  By  no  means  !  "  she  ex- 
claimed. "  It  was  no  joke.  You  have  given  me 
your  heart.  I  would  not  give  it  back  for  a  mil- 
lion. The  bargain  has  been  concluded,  and  con- 
cluded it  must  remain." 

De  Musset,  however,  urged  the  restitution  of 


60  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

the  jewel  so  persistently  that  Rachel  at  last  could 
induce  him  to  retain  it  only  as  an  earnest  of  the 
tragedy  which  he  was  to  write  for  her.  "  If  ever, 
through  my  fault  or  yours,  you  abandon  the  pro- 
ject," she  said,  "  bring  me  back  the  ring  and  I 
will  accept  it." 

Rachel  went  to  England,  and  Rose  Ch6ri  made 
her  appearance  as  Clarissa  Harlowe  at  the  The- 
atre Fran9ais.  De  Musset,  who  was  never  tired  of 
reading  Richardson's  novel,  witnessed  thirty  suc- 
cessive perfoiTuances  of  that  emotional  drama. 
His  enthusiastic  notices  of  the  acting  of  Rose 
Cheri  reached  the  eyes  of  Rachel,  and  provoked 
her  jealousy.  On  her  return  the  latter  never  al- 
luded to  the  tragedy  stipulated  for.  The  poet 
returned  the  ring,  which  she  permitted  him  to 
place  upon  her  finger  without  the  slightest  remon- 
strance. 

Four  years  later  Rachel  was  giving  a  dinner 
to  inaugurate  her  entry  into  a  new  mansion  in  the 
Rue  Tendon.  De  Musset  was  among  the  guests, 
and  as  the  company  proceeded  to  the  dining-room 
the  artiste  took  his  arm.  As  they  together  as- 
cended a  narrow  staircase  the  poet  accidentally 
stepped  upon  her  train. 

"  When  you  give  your  arm  to  a  lady,"  Ra- 
chel remarked,  "  you  should  mind  where  you  put 
your  feet." 

**When  a  lady  becomes  a  princess,"  retorted 
Alfred,  "and  builds  a  palace,  she  should  instruct 


ALFRED  DE  MUSSET.  61 

her  architect  to  build  a  wider  staircase  than 
this." 

The  raillery  of  the  day  was,  however,  followed 
by  a  reconciliation  in  the  evening.  De  Musset 
was  again  to  be  Rachel's  poet  ;  but  jealousy  again 
cut  the  thread  of  their  intimacy.  Rose  Cheri  and 
a  highly  successful  play,  "  Bettine,"  which  the 
poet  had  written  for  her,  were  this  time  the  causes 
of  the  rupture — the  final  estrangement.  Any  man 
other  than  De  Musset,  whose  singular  organiza- 
tion palliated  all  his  offenses,  and  made  him  the 
exquisite  poet  that  he  was,  might  deserve  severe 
blame  for  having  made  art  and  glory  subservient 
to  the  petty  jealousies  of  a  woman. 

The  heart-disease  with  which  De  Musset  was 
afflicted  made  rapid  progress  during  the  last  four 
years  of  his  life,  especially  as  he  persistently  re- 
fused regular  medical  treatment.  In  March,  1857, 
Augier  had  presented  himself  as  a  candidate  at 
the  Academy.  De  Musset,  who  dearly  loved  Au- 
gier, could  not  be  induced  to  miss  the  sitting. 
Rain  poured  in  torrents,  and  a  cab  was  not  to  be 
found.  De  Musset  started  on  foot,  but  was  obliged 
to  stop  every  few  moments  to  breathe.  He  ar- 
rived just  in  time  to  cast  his  vote,  which  decided 
the  election.  This  was  the  last  time  that  he  at- 
tended a  session  of  the  Academy.  A  month  later, 
on  his  return  from  a  dinner  at  the  house  of  Prince 
Jerome  Bonaparte,  he  felt  unusually  ill.  He  went 
to  his  bed,  from  which  he  was  to  rise  no  more. 


62  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

Like  Byron,  lie  suifered  from  sleeplessness  as  he 
neared  the  closing  scene.  On  May  1st,  having 
followed  his  physician's  prescriptions,  he  became 
serene,  as  if  about  to  improve.  "  How  sweet  is 
this  calm,"  he  said  ;  "  how  wrong  are  we  to  fear 
death,  which  is  naught  but  the  highest  expression 
of  calm."  He  spoke  of  all  his  friends,  not  one  of 
whom  he  forgot.  At  midnight,  near  one  o'clock, 
he  sat  up  in  his  bed,  placed  his  hand  upon  his 
breast,  reclined  again  upon  the  pillow,  and  ex- 
pired, after  whispering,  "  To  sleep  !  At  last  I  am 
going  to  sleep." 

De  Musset  was  as  handsome  as  Byron.  He 
was  a  blond  Torquato  Tasso.  His  dark-blue  eyes 
were  full  of  meaning.  His  whole  countenance 
plainly  expressed  the  emotions  of  his  soul.  His 
manner  was  wonderfully  fascinating.  When  I 
was  a  boy  I  saw  De  Musset  once  ;  and  I  can  to- 
day readily  understand  the  subtle  power  which  he 
wielded  over  all  who  knew  him,  especially  over 
the  women.  Few  men  were  so  thoroughly  frank. 
He  could  forgive  any  fault  but  lying.  That  he  was 
most  generous,  even  to  those  who  wronged  him,  is 
proved  by  the  fact  that  he  was  never  known  to 
utter  a  single  word  against  George  Sand  ;  nay,  he 
even  accused  his  own  temper  of  being  the  cause 
of  all  the  misery  that  grew  out  of  his  acquain- 
tance with  her.  That  he  was  in  the  highest  de- 
gree charitable,  the  following  anecdote  will  show  : 
Late  one  night,  as  he  was  returning  from  the  The- 


ALFRED   DE   MUSSET.  63 

atre  Fran9ais,  he  came  across  an  old  beggar  who 
was  obstinately  turning  the  crank  of  an  organ. 
The  snow  was  falling  in  heavy  flakes  upon  the 
slippery  sidewalk.  De  Musset  passed  the  organ- 
grinder  without  noticing  him  ;  but  on  reaching 
his  door  there  came  to  him  a  sharp  realization  of 
the  aged  pauper  playing  in  the  bitter  night,  in 
want  of  money,  perhaps,  wherewith  to  procure  a 
lodging.  He  hurried  back  and  gave  the  man  a 
five-franc  piece  on  condition  that  he  would  go  to 
bed.  To  his  brother,  who  had  tried  to  detain  him, 
he  replied,  "  Unless  I  go  back  and  give  him  some- 
thing, his  d d  music  will  haunt  me  all  night 

like  the  demon  of  remorse." 

De  Musset  was  as  fond  of  paintings  and  ob- 
jects of  vertu  as  Theophile  Gautier.  He  was  once 
offered  an  opportunity  to  purchase  a  beautiful 
copy  of  a  canvas  by  Giorgione.  He  had  no  mon- 
ey. The  dealer  suggested  that  he  might  pay  for 
it  in  four  monthly  installments.  He  yielded  to  the 
temptation.  The  painting  was  placed  in  his  dining- 
room,  and  he  bade  his  housekeeper  place  his  cover 
opposite  to  the  picture,  saying  :  "  For  four  months 
you  will  economize  by  one  dish.  By  gazing  at 
that  picture  the  dinner  will  taste  just  as  good  to 
me." 

One   of   his    strongest   passions  was  to  play 

chess.     Usually  so  impatient  and  restless,  he  would 

pore  for  hours   in  perfect   silence  over  a   chess 

table.      After  his   breaking  with   George  Sand, 

5 


64  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

when  almost  nothing  else  could  lessen  his  grief,  a 
game  of  chess  would  afford  him  great  temporary- 
relief.  He  who  was  often  incapable  of  writing  a 
line  unless  under  the  exhilarating  influence  of  ab- 
sinthe, after  intoxicating  himself  in  the  giddy 
round  of  Parisian  pleasures,  would  play  as  strong 
a  game  of  chess  as  his  staid  and  sedate  uncle  Des- 
herbieres,  forgetting  even  his  eternal  cigarette. 

Besides  being  a  great  chess-player,  he  was  a 
clever  prestidigitateur.  One  evening,  while  visiting 
an  aunt  in  Lorraine,  he  was  urged  to  read,  accord- 
ing to  promise,  one  of  his  poems  before  a  small 
and  highly  appreciative  audience.  He  preferred, 
hoAvever,  to  show  himself  as  a  rival  of  Heller  and 
Hermann.  He  cut  the  handkerchief  of  one  of  the 
ladies  into  a  hundred  pieces,  and  afterward  re- 
turned it  to  her  in  its  integrity,  and  caused  his 
aunt's  ring  to  pass  into  his  uncle's  snuff-box.  Of 
poetry  not  a  single  line  could  be  extracted  from 
him.  One  of  his  favorite  amusements  was  to  try 
to  make  an  egg  stand  upon  the  convexity  of  an 
old-fashioned  globular  watch-glass.  His  patience 
was  in  these  experiments  often  severely  tried.  It 
is  to  be  remarked  also  that  at  De  Musset's  table 
omelettes  were  a  staple  article  of  diet.  Once,  at 
Plombi^res,  the  mayor  and  prefect,  wishing  to 
do  him  honor,  visited  him  in  state  attire.  They 
found  the  author  of  "Namouna"  surrounded 
with  pairs  of  tongs,  chairs  standing  upside  down, 
broom-sticks,   and   other  objects   which   he   had 


TH^OPHILE  GAUTIER.  65 

skillfully  contrived  to  make  stand  unsupported. 
"  Not  another  step,  gentlemen  !  "  he  wildly  ex- 
claimed, "  or  you  will  upset  every  tiling."  The 
two  gentlemen  were  obliged  to  retire,  and  leave 
the  poet  to  his  legerdemain. 

De  Musset  was  a  fatalist.  To  him  the  un- 
known and  the  unforeseen  were  irresistible  at- 
tractions. He  once  came  near  marrying  a  young 
lady  with  whom  he  was  not  acquainted  even  by 
sight.  His  firm  belief  in  chance  he  has  well  ex- 
pressed in  the  following  line  : 

"  La  poussi^re  est  a  Dieu ;  la  reste  est  au  hazard." 


THilOPHILE  GAUTIER. 

Some  thirty  years  ago  Parisians  occasionally 
saw,  pacing  the  Faubourg  Montmartre,  a  man 
whose  strange  behavior  excited  general  curiosity. 
He  stared  into  all  the  shop-windows,  and  stopped 
every  now  and  then  to  chat  in  a  friendly  way 
with  the  gossips  of  the  quarter.  A  cigar  was 
always  in  his  mouth,  a  fez  on  his  head,  and  a 
loose,  rakish  jacket  of  velvet  hung  in  folds  from 
his  broad  shoulders.  Of  unusually  high  stature, 
he  walked  with  a  grand  stride,  his  feet  cased  in 
yellow  slippers  of  a  Turkish  pattern.  He  paid  no 
more  attention  to  the  comments  which  his  sin- 
gular appearance  occasionally  provoked  than  if 


66  FRENCH   MEN  OF   LETTERS. 

he  had  been  a  Turk  strayed  into  the  Western 
world.  Indeed,  he  was  fond  of  pretending  to  be 
a  Turk.  His  face  was  framed  in  flowing  black 
curls  and  a  beard  of  the  same  hue.  About  his 
firmly  shaped  mouth  there  was,  however,  nothing 
hard,  and  his  exquisitely  carved  nose  evidenced, 
like  the  masterpieces  of  Greek  statuary,  a  con- 
tempt for  the  petty  and  the  vile.  His  beautiful 
almond-shaped  eyes  were  mild  yet  full  of  fire. 
The  ensemble  was  that  of  an  extraordinary  per- 
son who  contemptuously  cast  from  him  all  that 
was  commonplace  in  men  and  things — a  brave, 
independent  individuality,  which  repelled  the 
bad  and  attracted  the  good  among  men  and 
women. 

This  was  Theophile  Gautier— "  Theo,"  as  his 
intimes  used  to  call  him — as  a  man  or  as  a  writer 
truly  one  of  the  most  original  and  gifted  of  the 
sons  of  France.  "  Completeness  on  his  own  scale," 
says  Henry  James,  Jr.,  "  is  to  our  mind  the  idea 
he  most  instantly  suggests.  Such  as  his  finished 
task  now  presents  him,  he  is  almost  sole  of  his 
kind.  We  doubt  whether  the  literature  of  our 
age  presents  so  naturally  perfect  a  genius.  .  .  . 
The  artificer  of  '  £maux  et  Camees '  was  pre- 
sumably of  the  opinion  that  it  is  idle  at  all  times 
to  point  a  moral.  But,  if  there  are  sermons  in 
stones,  there  -are  profitable  reflections  to  be  made 
even  on  Theophile  Gautier  ;  notably  this  one — 
that  a  man's  supreme  use  in  the  world  is  to  mas- 


THEOPHILE  GAUTIER.  67 

ter  his  intellectual  instrument  and  play  it  in  per- 
fection." 

To  follow  this  great  poet  through  the  manifold 
phases  of  his  literary  and  private  life  would  be  an 
undertaking  which  might  challenge  the  brevity  of 
a  Tacitus.  His  collected  works  fill  some  twenty- 
five  volumes,  and  his  miscellaneous  contributions 
to  the  press  would  fill  many  more.  The  poet's 
own  son-in-law,  Bergerat,  in  a  recent  memoir,  could 
not  present  more  than  a  comparatively  small  num- 
ber of  facts  concerning  the  last  years  of  the  poet's 
life.  We  can  offer,  therefore,  in  these  few  pages 
barely  enough  to  enable  the  reader  to  form  a 
fair  idea  of  the  famous  author  of  "  Le  Capitaine 
Fracasse." 

Gautier  was  born  in  the  historical  city  of 
Tarbes,  in  the  Hautes-Pyrenees,  on  the  31st  day 
of  August,  1811,  and  died  at  Paris  on  the  22d  of 
October,  1872.  He  came  to  Paris  with  his  family 
when  very  young,  and  completed  his  studies  at 
the  College  Charlemagne.  He  was  always  at  the 
bottom  of  his  class,  and  became  celebrated  amid 
his  schoolmates  for  his  fearful  blunders.  "He 
was,"  a  biographer  says,  "  in  very  truth  a  de- 
plorable scapegrace,  who  hated  Homer  and  Cicero 
with  a  malignant  hatred,  and  would  have  jumped 
for  joy  if  he  could  have  made  a  bonfire  of  every 
classical  volume  in  existence." 

Theophile  Gautier  must  be  considered  as  a 
self-made  man.     He  used  to  say  that  in  his  youth 


68  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

it  cost  him  more  time  to  unlearn  that  which  he 
had  been  taught  than  to  acquire  new  knowledge. 
How  beneficial  would  it  be  for  the  advance  of 
civilization  if  many  of  us  would  similarly  shake 
off  the  prejudices  of  early  education  !  The  first 
years  of  his  literary  career  were  devoted  to  expe- 
dients and  experiments.  Though  one  of  the  most 
active  of  the  romanticists,  he  was  far  ahead  of  the 
romantic  school.  He  may  be  regarded  as  the  foun- 
der of  realism  in  poetry.  At  the  age  of  nineteen 
he  published  a  small  volume  of  poems  bearing  the 
characteristic  inscription,  "  Ah  !  si  je  pouvais  un 
jour!"  ("Ah!  if  some  day  I  could"),  and  he 
proved  that  he  could  dare  anything.  The  touch 
of  his  pen  beautified  everything.  His  poetry  was 
not,  and  could  not  be,  at  once  popular  ;  but  Vic- 
tor Hugo  looked  upon  him  as  the  coming  man, 
and  Balzac,  the  elder  Dumas,  Jules  Janin,  Sainte- 
Beuve,  and  many  more  who  have  since  become 
famous,  styled  him  simply  "  the  poet,"  or  "  Young 
France." 

It  was  Sainte-Beuve,  by  the  way,  who  had  the 
privilege  of  being  selected  by  Gautier  as  judge  of 
his  capabilities  as  a  poet.  Theophile  introduced 
himself  to  the  great  critic,  and  begged  the  latter's 
permission  to  read  to  him  a  poem  bearing  the 
rather  somber  title  "La  Fete  de  Moit."  Sainte- 
Beuve  was  known  for  anything  but  indulgence 
toward  young  authors,  and  out  of  mere  politeness 
consented  to   endure  "the  punishment  inflicted 


THEOPHILE  GAUTIER.  69 

upon  him."  But  at  the  third  stanza  he  could  not 
forbear  exclaiming  :  "  Who  has  been  your  model  ? 
It  is  not  by  studying  Lamartine  that  you  may 
have  written  these  verses.  You  must  have  read 
Clement,  Marat,  Saint-Gelais,  and  Ronsard." 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  young  man,  "  and  you  may 
add  to  them  Baif,  Desportes,  Passerat,  Bertaut, 
Duperron,  and  Malherbe." 

"  The  whole  pleiad  ?  Conclude,  I  beg  you," 
earnestly  rejoined  Sainte-Beuve,  becoming  more 
and  more  interested. 

Gautier  continued  to  read  his  poem  to  the  end. 
As  he  concluded,  Sainte-Beuve  in  an  outburst  of 
enthusiasm  cried  ;  "  At  last  I  have  found  a  man 
who  carves  in  granite  and  not  in  smoke  I  To-mor- 
row I  shall  introduce  you  to  Victor  Hugo." 

The  romantic  outpourings  of  Theophile  highly 
pleased  his  family.  He  found  great  encourage- 
ment at  home.  Pierre  Gautier  was  the  first  to  ad- 
mire the  literary  and  artistic  ideas  of  his  son.  As 
for  the  mother,  "  she  lived  in  a  continual  state  of 
dumb  ecstasy  in  the  contemplation  of  this  hand- 
some young  man  with  waving  hair,  who  was 
steadily  gaining  success.  Never  was  child  more 
spoiled,  more  petted.  Paternal  authority  never 
interfered  but  to  remind  the  idle  writer  of  the 
page  begun  and  the  end  to  be  attained." 

Admitted  to  the  literary  receptions  of  Mme. 
de  Girardin,  then  at  the  height  of  her  beauty  and 
repute,  he   soon  became  her  private   secretary. 


70  FRENCH    MEN    OF   LETTERS. 

With  all  her  talents  she  was  as  poor  a  hand  at 
spelling  as  Lord  Macaulay.  She  could  learn 
everything  but  orthography.  While  copying  one 
of  her  poems,  Theophile  saw  fit  to  correct  cer- 
tain words.  The  lady  haughtily  demanded  his 
reason  for  the  change.  To  hir  mild  explanation 
she  indignantly  replied : 

"Mme.  de  Girardin,  monsieur,  can  spell  just 
as  she  pleases.  All  Paris  will  adopt  whatever 
way  I  prefer." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  that,  madame  ;  for  if  the 
romanticists  follow  you,  I,  Theophile  Gautier,  shall 
for  the  occasion  become  the  most  arrant  of  classi- 
cists." 

It  is,  however,  but  fair  to  state  that  in  the 
matter  of  punctuation  Gautier  was  as  culpable  as 
Mme.  de  Girardin.  lie  used  to  say  that  this  was 
properly  the  work  of  compositors  and  proof- 
readers. 

This  little  storm  passed  away,  and,  even  after 
he  relinquished  the  secretaryship,  Theophile  was 
a  constant  and  welcome  visitor  at  the  salon  of 
Mme.  de  Girardin,  albeit  his  Bohemian  habits 
used  seriously  to  disturb  the  equanimity  of  her 
husband. 

Gautier's  celebrity  dates  from  the  publication 
of  his  "Mademoiselle  de  Maupin."  Theophile 
wrote  it  in  his  room  in  his  father's  house  in  the 
Place  E-oyale.  It  wearied  him  extremely.  The 
young  man  lived  as  a  Bohemian  lion,  and  pre- 


THEOPHILE   GAUTIER.  71 

ferred  displaying  "  his  gorgeous  waistcoats  and 
marvelous  pantaloons  "  on  the  boulevards  to  shut- 
ting himself  up  and  blackening  sheets  of  paper. 
His  father  was  frequently  compelled  to  turn  the 
key  on  him  and  cry  through  the  keyhole,  "  You 
shall  not  come  out  until  you  have  written  ten 
pages  of  *Maupin.'"  But  even  this  proceeding 
would  occasionally  prove  unavailing.  Sometimes 
Theophile  would  sleep  the  whole  day  or  climb 
out  through  the  window  ;  sometimes  his  mother 
would  let  him  out  by  stealth. 

It  fell  like  a  thunderbolt  in  the  midst  of  Pa- 
risian society.  But  the  shock  experienced  was 
a  trifle  in  comparison  with  the  delight  that  the 
book  yielded,  and  everybody  wanted  to  read  it. 
In  this  curious  book  Gautier  tells  the  story  of  a 
woman  whose  beauty  arouses  the  sensual  love  of 
men,  as  well  as  that  of  her  fellow- women.  It  is  the 
apotheosis  of  plastic  perfection.  All  the  ideas, 
dreams,  and  aspirations,  awakened  in  his  mind  by 
the  masterpieces  of  sculpture  and  painting  in  the 
Paris  museums,  seemingly  narrowed  themselves 
into  one  groove — the  adoration  of  the  beautiful. 
As  a  critic  has  it  :  "  Good,  evil,  vice,  virtue,  re- 
ligion, impiety — these  were  comprised  in  and  esti- 
mated by  the  possession  of  a  perfect  outward  and 
visible  shape,  a  perfection  which  was  material  and 
palpable,  which  could  be  seen  and  touched.  He 
saw  nothing  beyond  corporeal  loveliness,  and  that 
alone  was  the  mother  of  all  the  virtues.     Venus, 


72  FRENCH  MEN   OF   LETTERS. 

in  Gautier's  opinion,  was  a  greater  saint  than  St. 
Ursula  and  her  eleven  thousand  virgins,  missals 
and  all." 

Its  publication  procured  for  Gautier  the  friend- 
ship of  Balzac,  and  "  Theo  "  became  his  collabora- 
tor, writing  meanwhile  "  Fortunio  "  and  other  nov- 
els. For  many  days,  persuaded  by  Balzac  that 
lamp-light  was,  for  literary  labor,  superior  to  sun- 
light, Gautier  lived  like  an  anchorite,  in  absolute 
darkness  but  for  the  light  of  the  lamp.  The  author 
of  "  !!fimaux  et  Camees  "  says  that  he  thought  he 
had  experienced  resurrection  from  the  tomb  the 
day  he  resumed  his  former  mode  of  life  and  work. 
It  was  then  that  he  associated  himself  with  Gerard 
de  Nerval,  from  whom  he  became  almost  insepa- 
rable. 

The  following  anecdote  illustrates  the  rela- 
tion between  Balzac  and  Gautier  :  Curmer,  when 
he  conceived  the  idea  of  publishing  his  series, 
"  Frenchmen  painted  by  Themselves,"  asked  some 
sketches  of  Balzac.  The  great  novelist  consented, 
stipulating  only  that  the  series  should  include  an 
essay  upon  himself  from  the  pen  of  Gautier.  The 
bargain  was  concluded,  and  ^ve  hundred  francs 
was  fixed  upon  as  the  price  of  Gautier's  contri- 
bution. Theophile,  eager  to  fill  his  empty  purse, 
brought  to  the  publisher  the  required  sketch  in  a 
few  days,  but  his  timidity  prevented  him  from 
asking  payment.  Two  weeks  passed,  but  no 
money  was  forthcoming.      Finally,  Balzac   one 


THEOPHILE  GAUTIER.  73 

day  made  his  appearance.  "  I  am  at  a  loss  how 
adequately  to  thank  you,"  the  novelist  said  ; 
"your  essay  is  a  masterpiece.  Thinking  you 
might  be  in  need  of  money,  I  have  brought  you 
the  price  agreed  upon."  He  placed  two  hundred 
and  fifty  francs  upon  the  table. 

"  Two  hundred  and  fifty  !  "  said  Gautier  ;  "  I 
think  you  said  five  hundred." 

"  So  I  did  ;  but  please  reflect.  Had  I  not  ex- 
isted, you  could  never  have  had  the  opportunity  of 
writing  so  much  good  about  me.  That  is  clear. 
Half  the  sum,  therefore,  comes  to  me  as  subject, 
the  remainder  goes  to  you  as  author.  We  are 
collaborators.     Am  I  not  right  ?  " 

"As  right  as  Solomon  himself,"  rejoined  Gau- 
tier. The  most  astonishing  part  of  it  is,  that  even 
in  later  years  he  persisted  in  approving  of  Balzac's 
conduct. 

Like  Richelieu,  who  more  coveted  the  title  of 
great  playwright  than  that  of  great  statesman — 
like  Ingres,  who  fancied  himself  a  greater  violinist 
than  painter — Gautier  imagined  that  he  could 
wield  the  brush  to  better  purpose  than  the  pen. 
Had  he  carried  out  his  first  intention,  we  might 
to-day  have  on  canvas  such  masterpieces  as 
"  Constantinople  "  and  "  Spain  "  are  on  paper. 
Except  patience,  he  possessed  every  quality  of  a 
great  painter.  A  collection  of  his  sketches  brought 
after  his  death  about  one  hundred  thousand  francs. 
Victor  Hugo,  Auguste  Perault,  Henry  Houssaye, 


74  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

and  Eugene  Plot,  possess  very  fine  specimens  of 
his  painting.  The  reason  why  he  gave  up  the 
easel  for  the  writing-desk  has  been  given  in  va- 
rious ways.  The  following  version  I  hold  from 
Ars^ne  Houssaye  :  On  a  certain  day  Gautier  car- 
ried a  small  historical  painting  to  an  art-dealer, 
whose  admiration  for  the  production  was  as  great 
as  his  knowledge  of  history  was  small,  and  who 
consequently  requested  the  seller  to  provide  him 
with  a  short  explanatory  sketch.  The  painter 
shortly  found  himself  in  a  "  vasty  deep  "  of  rhet- 
oric and  historical  philosophy.  The  notice  as- 
sumed the  proportions  of  an  essay.  Gavarni  and 
Gerard  de  Nerval  entered  his  room  while  he  was 
writing  and  asked  the  nature  of  his  work.  He 
read  it  to  them,  and  they  told  him  that,  however 
good  his  pictures,  he  could  paint  far  better  with 
his  pen  than  with  his  brush.  "  Now  that  I  have 
read  what  I  have  written,  I  think  so  myself,"  said 
Theophile  ;  "  I  will  try  my  hand  further  and  see 
what  I  can  do." 

His  painter's  eye,  I  think,  invested  his  style 
with  not  a  little  of  that  vivid  picturesqueness 
which  places  it  so  far  above  that  of  most  contem- 
porary writers.  Had  not  his  gift  of  visual  discrim- 
ination been  so  extraordinary,  and  his  observation 
so  penetrative,  I  doubt  whether  his  descriptions 
would  have  attained  such  an  unerring  excellence. 
"  One  might  fancy,"  well  remarks  Mr.  James, 
"  that  grave  Nature,  in  a  fit  of  coquetry,  or  tired 


THEOPHILE  GAUTIER.  75 

of  receiving  but  half  justice,  had  determined  to 
construct  a  genius  with  senses  of  a  finer  strain 
than  the  mass  of  the  human  family." 

Many  of  Gautier's  productions  evidence  the 
haste  which  necessarily  characterizes  the  contri- 
butions to  the  daily  press.  Mouselet  has  well 
styled  him  "  the  martyr  of  copy."  But,  whenever 
it  was  possible,  he  was  as  fastidious  as  Thack- 
eray. His  "  ]fimaux  et  Cam6es,"  as  the  title  indi- 
cates, received  the  most  studied  care,  and  resembles 
goldsmith's  work.  "  Le  Capitaine  Fracasse  "  was 
the  result  of  years  of  diligent  labor,  but  not  of 
twenty-five,  as  has  been  frequently  claimed.  It 
is  true,  however,  that  it  was  announced  twenty- 
five  years  previous  to  its  appearance,  because  the 
author  had  taken  a  fancy  to  the  title,  and  had  pro- 
posed to  write  "  up  "  to  it.  One  of  his  favorite 
recreations  was  the  study  of  the  dictionary,  to 
which  is  due  his  marvelous  knowledge  of  the  ca- 
pacity of  a  word  or  a  phrase.  Indeed,  as  he  ever 
sought  to  create  a  style  of  his  own,  dictionaries 
multiplied  upon  his  book-shelves.  With  this  ob- 
ject, he  rescued  from  oblivion  all  the  obsolete 
words  he  could  hit  upon.  In  this  way  he  filled 
his  vocabulary  with  hundreds  of  quaint,  bizarre 
expressions  which,  manipulated  with  peculiar  skill, 
gave  to  his  outpoured  thoughts  the  original  un- 
hackneyed turn  for  which  he  will  ever  be  fa- 
mous. 

Gautier  was,  during  forty  years,  a  dramatic  and 


76  FRENCH  MEN   OF  LETTERS. 

an  art  critic  as  well  as  a  novelist  and  a  poet.  The 
whole  history  of  the  art  and  literature  of  the  last 
forty  years  is  contained  in  his  criticisms.  These 
would  have  made  any  man's  fame.  When  advised 
of  the  appropriateness  of  publishing  his  critiques  in 
a  collected  form,  he  would  object,  saying,  "  What 
is  the  good  of  changing  a  tomb  into  a  necrop- 
olis !  "  It  was,  indeed,  only  after  his  death  that 
some  of  them  were  published.  His  sense  of  re- 
finement was  so  great  that  he  could  discover  in 
a  work  of  art  an  excellence  which  hitherto  had 
escaped  the  greatest  artists.  For  beginners  he 
was  almost  a  prophet.  He  predicted  the  success 
of  Jerome  from  his  debut,  French  artists  regarded 
him  as  a  supreme  judge,  and  dreaded  his  silence. 
He  was,  in  my  opinion,  an  ideal  critic — a  man  who 
knew  and  sympathized  with  all  the  varied  forms 
of  beauty.  He  was,  however,  too  prone  to  be 
good-natured,  and  to  distribute  his  praises  too 
freely — a  peculiarity  which  grew  seemingly  from 
the  desire  to  be  at  peace  with  everybody.  Apro- 
pos of  this  dislike  of  making  enemies,  Bergerat 
relates  an  amusing  story  which  he  heard  from  his 
father-in-law's  own  lips  : 

"  Had  the  desire  of  being  wicked  in  my  re- 
marks seized  me,"  "  Young  France  "  would  say, 
"  the  recollection  of  my  dealer  in  notions  would 
have  sufficiently  warned  me  against  yielding." 

"  Your  dealer  in  notions  ?  How  is  that  ?  " 
asked  the  son-in-law. 


TH^OPEILE  GAUTIER.  77 

"Why,  don't  you  know  the  story?  In  de- 
scribing an  idiot,  I  had  once  used  a  phrase  like 
this  :  *  As  stupid  as  a  merchant  in  notions.'  Quite 
inoffensive,  you  think,  and  so  thought  I.  But  a 
member  of  the  abused  craft  who  happened  to 
read  the  article  thought  that  the  whole  trade  had 
been  outraged,  and  determined  upon  a  terrible 
vengeance.  He  clandestinely  bought  from  all  my 
creditors — and  I  had  a  considerable  number  of 
them — their  bills  against  me.  Thus  armed,  he 
announced  his  purpose  to  sell  me  out.  I  offered 
to  pay  him  by  installments.  He  refused.  By 
dint  of  superhuman  efforts  I  gathered  the  whole 
sum  and  placed  it  at  his  disposal.  He  bluntly 
declined  to  take  it,  and  even  offered  to  lend  mo 
money  if  I  so  desired.  His  object,  he  said,  was 
to  sell  me  out,  and  sell  me  out  he  would.  I  was 
at  last  obliged  to  go  to  the  courts  to  make  him 
accept  the  amount  of  my  indebtedness  to  him. 
Think  of  that  ! — I,  Th^ophile  Gautier,  obliged  to 
go  to  court  to  make  a  creditor  take  my  money. 
Ah  !  my  dear  boy,  if  you  want  to  save  yourself 
trouble,  weigh  well  the  words  that  you  write." 

He  had  another  reason  for  being  lenient  in  his 
criticisms.  During  the  last  twenty  years  of  his 
life  he  wrote  his  artistic  reviews  in  the  "  Journal 
Officiel,"  which,  being  the  organ  of  the  Imperial 
Government,  afforded  a  limited  freedom  of  speech. 
Hindered  from  expressing  his  unbiased  opinion,  he 
would  often  deal  out  wholesale  praise,  which  at 


78  FRENCH   MEN   OF  LETTERS. 

times  was  cleverly  disguised  satire.  Among  his 
friends,  however,  he  would  mercilessly  criticise 
what  he  had  been  obliged  to  praise,  and  even  cut 
to  pieces  his  own  articles.  Edmond  Goncourt 
tells  the  following  story  in  this  regard  :  One 
evening,  during  a  conversation  at  the  Princesse 
Mathilde's,  Theophile  ferociously  handled  a  dra- 
matic production  which  he  had  very  mildly  cen- 
sured in  the  paper  of  that  same  day.  Some  one 
bluntly  asked  why  had  he  not  expressed  in  the 
morning  the  views  of  the  evening. 

"I  have  an  anecdote  to  tell  you,"  rejoined 
Theophile,  smiling  calmly.  "  Count  Walewski 
once  told  me  to  be  no  longer  indulgent  to  any 
one.  He  declared  that  thereafter  I  could  express 
my  free  opinion  upon  all  plays.  *  But,  your  Ex- 
cellency,' I  whispered  in  his  ear,  *  Monsieur  X 

will  have  a  piece  represented  at  the  Theatre  Fran- 
9ais.'  *  Indeed  ! '  vivaciously  rejoined  the  Min- 
ister of  the  Interior  ;  *  well,  then,  wait  until  next 
week.'  *  May  I  begin  now  ? '  I  asked  at  the  end 
of  the  week.  *  Wait  until  next  week,'  was  the  re- 
ply, which  I  had  the  opportunity  to  hear  repeated 
many  times  more.  That  famous  week  has  yet  to 
come." 

Only  once  did  Theophile  dare  to  disobey  the 
Secretary's  injunctions.  It 'was  in  1867,  on  the 
occasion  of  the  revival  of  "Hernani."  Gautier, 
always  the  enthusiastic  admirer  and  bosom  friend 
of  Victor  Hugo,  had  spoken  of  the  drama  with 


TH^OPHILE  GAUTIER.  79 

unmeasured  praise  and  solemnity.  Hugo  was  of 
course  one  of  those  to  whom  Walewski's  formula 
of  indiscriminate  praise  did  not  apply  ;  the  article 
was  withheld  from  the  press  as  too  enthusiastic. 
Gautier  was  asked  to  moderate  the  eulogy.  With- 
out making  the  slightest  reply,  he  took  up  a  sheet 
of  blank  paper  and  wrote  on  it  his  resignation. 
Then  he  laid  it  before  the  Minister  of  the  Inte- 
rior, with  his  article.  "Choose,"  he  said.  The 
article  was  printed  as  originally  written. 

To  Hugo,  Gautier  never  ceased  to  offer  signs 
of  his  veneration.  An  aristocrat  and  a  Bona- 
partist  as  he  was,  he  held  fast  to  the  people  by 
his  love  for  the  great  poet.  When,  having  taken 
refuge  in  Belgium,  Victor  Hugo  was  obliged  by 
need  to  sell  his  furniture,  Gautier  announced  the 
coming  sale  in  2^feuilleton  of  the  "Presse,"  which 
contained  pathetic  descriptions  of  several  objects 
of  his  brother  poet's  household.  "  Let  us  hope," 
he  concluded,  "  that  the  numerous  admirers  of  the 
great  exile  will  attend  this  sale,  which  they  should 
have  prevented  by  buying  by  subscription  his  fur- 
niture, so  that  the  poet  might  have  all  that  be- 
longed to  him  when  he  should  again  be  with  us. 
Let  them,  at  all  events,  think  that  they  are  pur- 
chasing, not  mere  pieces  of  furniture,  but  precious 
relics."  He  purchased  many  articles  particularly 
dear  to  their  owner,  and  when,  after  twenty  years, 
Hugo  came  back  from  exile,  he  returned  to  him 
all  that  the  latter  could  be  induced  \^  accept.  It 
6 


80  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

was  Gautier  who,  being  questioned  by  a  friend  as 
to  certain  verses  of  Victor  Hugo,  replied,  "  Had 
I  the  misfortune  to  believe  that  a  line  of  the 
maitre  is  bad,  I  should  not  acknowledge  it  to  my- 
self, were  I  all  alone,  in  a  pit,  without  a  light." 

Gautier  traveled  extensively  in  Italy,  Spain, 
Russia,  the  East,  etc.  ;  and  the  accounts  of  his 
sojourns  in  these  lands  revolutionized  the  preva- 
lent style  of  travel- writing,  which  was  notoriously 
heavy  and  dull.  His  "  Constantinople  "  is  so  per- 
fect that,  but  for  Gerard  de  Nerval,  Lamartine, 
and  De  Amicis,  I  should  deem  it  presumptuous 
for  any  other  man  to  attempt  describing  Eastern 
scenery  and  costumes.  With  a  book  by  Gautier 
in  the  hand,  one  really  travels  without  stirring 
from  the  fireside.  His  descriptions  are  less  pen- 
paintings  than  stereoscopic  views  enlivened  by 
the  sparkling  color  of  Fortuny,  though,  like  the 
latter,  he  painted  only  the  surface  of  things.  He 
seizes  the  imagination  with  more  striking  effect 
than  reality,  as  he  casts  upon  truth  all  the  glow 
of  art.  "  The  author's  manner,"  says  Mr.  James, 
"  is  so  light  and  true,  so  really  creative,  his  fancy 
so  alert,  his  taste  so  happy,  his  humor  so  genial, 
that  he  makes  illusion  almost  as  contagious  as 
laughter  :  the  image,  the  object,  the  scene  stands 
arrested  by  his  phrase,  with  the  wholesome  glow 
of  truth  overtaken."  Renan,  the  learned  philos- 
opher who,  for  the  purpose  of  rebuilding  the 
primitive    history   of    Christianity,   lived    many 


TH^OPHILE  GAUTIER.  81 

years  in  the  East,  is  wont  to  say  that  but  for 
Gautier's  book  he  could  never  have  accomplished 
the  herculean  task. 

However  vivid  and  graphic  may  be  his  writing, 
Gautier's  speech  was  even  more  rich  and  pictu- 
resque. He  was  a  most  famous  talker  :  the  most 
commonplace  incident  assumed  from  his  lips  the 
brightness  of  a  comical  adventure.  He  had  a  pe- 
culiarly fascinating  mode  of  viewing  and  saying 
things.  His  conversation  was  either  a  constant 
Pindaric  flight  in  the  highest  regions  of  poetry 
or  a  continual  fusillade  of  wit  and  humor.  Had 
it  been  possible  to  report  some  of  his  chats,  this 
Bohemian  would  appear  even  a  more  interesting 
character  than  he  is. 

The  dream  of  Gautier's  life  was  to  become  a 
member  of  the  Academy  ;  but  it  was  never  real- 
ized. He  belongs  to  that  eminent  group — Moliere, 
Pascal,  Balzac,  Beranger,  Dumas  phre^  Murger, 
etc. — "  who  came  near  making  it  the  supreme  lit- 
erary honor  in  France  not  to  be  numbered  among 
the  Forty  Immortals."  His  eccentricity  and  his 
early  Bohemianism  were  the  cause  of  his  exclusion 
from  that  honorable  body.  "  The  Academy,"  says 
Charles  Bigot,  "  wants  regularity  as  much  as  tal- 
ent." Gautier  used  to  say  that  the  "  bourgeois  " 
of  the  Academy  were  afraid  of  his  famous  red 
waistcoat,  which  he  wore  on  the  evening  of  the 
premiere  of  "  Hernani."  "  I  wore  it  only  once, 
and  have  worn  it  during  my  whole  life,"  he  would 


82  FRENCH   MEN   OF   LETTERS. 

say  of  that  garment.  He  always  alluded  to  his 
academical  failure  in  terms  of  fatalistic  disap- 
pointment. 

"  If  you  are  destined  to  be  one  of  the  Acad- 
emy," he  would  say  to  a  friend,  "  be  preoccupied 
with  nothing.  You  will  become  a  member.  Don't 
go  to  the  bother  of  writing  a  good  book — that  is 
perfectly  useless.  Throwing  libelous  pamphlets 
in  the  faces  of  that  august  company  will  not  pre- 
vent your  election,  if  the  latter  is  written  on  the 
book  of  fate.  If  it  is  not,  three  hundred  vol- 
umes recognized  by  the  kneeling  universe,  by  the 
Academy  itself,  as  so  many  masterpieces,  will  not 
open  to  you  the  doors  of  the  Institute.  One  is 
born  academician,  as  he  may  be  born  bishop,  cook, 
or  policeman.  Death  will  wait  for  him  who  is 
destined  to  fill  one  of  those  much-coveted  chairs. 
See  what  has  happened  to  me.  When  last  I  of- 
fered myself  as  a  candidate,  I  had  apparently 
secured  all  the  votes.  Guizot  and  Sainte-Beuve 
stood  by  me.  Politicians,  litterateurs^  old  and 
young,  were  on  my  side.  I  had  a  formal  prom- 
ise ;  the  Academy,  forsooth,  was  going  to  liqui- 
date a  debt  long  due  to  me.  On  the  day  of  the 
election  the  members  voted  for  me  to  a  man.  I 
firmly  believe  that  each  of  the  thirty-nine  ballots 
bore  my  name.  My  opponent  was  elected,  never- 
theless, almost  unanimously  !  " 

As  he  kept  aloof  from  all  the  convulsions 
which  agitated  France  during  his  lifetime,  and 


THEOPHILB  GAUTIER.  83 

accepted  the  office  of  librarian  in  the  household 
of  the  Princess  Mathilde,  he  has  been  accused  of 
lacking  patriotism — an  outrageous  calumny.  The 
house  of  the  Princess  was  a  literary,  not  a  political 
circle.  Gautier  surely  may  have  been  a  Platonic 
Bonapartist,  but  he  loved  his  country  better  than 
many  republicans  who  have  convulsed  it  with 
party  strife.  Already  an  old  man,  and  unmindful 
of  ill  health,  he  did  his  duty  at  the  siege  like  a 
Frenchman.  At  that  time  he  contracted  by  ex- 
posure a  disease  of  the  lungs  which  hastened  his 
death.  His  last  work,  "  Tableaux  du  Siege,"  is 
not  merely  the  product  of  imagination.  It  is 
the  cry  of  a  great  soul  witnessing  the  hourly 
disaster  and  humiliation  of  his  fatherland.  He 
viewed  the  catastrophe  as  well  with  the  reflec- 
tions of  a  philosopher  as  the  feelings  of  a  patriot. 
If  the  doctrine  of  general  disarmament  did  not 
originate  with  him,  it  found  in  him  at  least  a 
powerful  exponent.  "  During  many  years,"  he 
wrote,  "we  have  been  styled  the  first  nation  in 
war.  A  poor  glory,  forsooth  !  We  could  boast 
of  frightening  everybody — the  glory  of  Medusa. 
But  the  supremacy  of  civilization  is  made  up  of 
far  different  elements.  Let  us  be  the  apostles  of 
peace,  by  sending  our  soldiers  back  to  their  shops 
and  their  fields.  By  so  doing,  and  not  otherwise, 
will  we  righteously  proclaim  that  we  are  in  ad- 
vance of  other  peoples."  This  policy,  perhaps, 
was    that    of  a   dreamer,   but   it   certainly   was 


k 


84  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

broader  and  nobler  than  that  of  all  his  contem- 
poraries. 

One  of  Gautier's  peculiarities  was  his  love  for 
cats.  As  soon  as  he  could  conveniently  do  so,  he 
afforded  himself  the  luxury  of  twelve  of  the  hand- 
somest felines  that  money  could  purchase.  It  was 
an  interesting  sight  to  behold  this  Hercules  in  his 
writing-room,  playing  with  his  regiment  of  cats, 
whom  he  had  taught  to  love  one  another  as  they 
did  himself.  When  some  of  them  broke  a  val- 
uable object  of  art — ^his  study,  by  the  way,  was  a 
curiosity-shop — he  seriously  deliberated  upon  get- 
ting rid  of  them  ;  but,  when  the  man  he  had  en- 
gaged came  to  remove  the  obnoxious  pets,  he  re- 
lented and  sent  him  away.  He  named  each  one 
of  them  after  some  well-known  person  to  whom 
he  fancied  it  bore  some  resemblance,  physical  or 
otherwise.  He  seldom  wrote  anything  without  a 
cat  or  two  in  his  lap. 

A  desk  is  religiously  preserved  in  the  town 
school  at  Tarbes,  before  which  tourists  stand  in 
admiration  as  soon  as  they  hear  that  upon  it  Th6- 
ophile  leaned  to  learn  his  first  lessons.  Theophile, 
hearing  the  story,  resolved  to  form  the  acquaint- 
ance of  this  desk.  He  went  to  Tarbes,  presented 
himself  incognito  to  the  principal  of  the  school, 
and,  announcing  himself  as  an  enthusiastic  ad- 
mirer of  Gautier's  writings,  begged  to  see  the 
desk.  "  It  was  assuredly  the  first  time,"  Gautier 
said  afterward,  "  that  I  and  it  had  ever  been  face 


THEOPHILE   GAUTIER.  85 

to  face  with  each  other  ;  but  still,  though  it  was 
not  my  desk,  it  might  easily  have  been.  I  sat 
down  on  the  bench  which  belonged  to  it,  and 
which,  if  fate  had  so  willed,  would  have  been  my 
bench.  Having  placed  myself  in  the  attitude  of 
a  studious  scholar,  I  tried  to  imagine  myself  as 
once  again  in  my  own  proper  position.  The  prin- 
cipal seeing  me  thus  absorbed,  could  not  restrain 
a  smile  softened  by  emotion  ;  he  showed  me  on 
the  desk  sundry  scratches  and  cuts  made  by  The- 
ophile  Gautier  in  class,  procuring  for  him,  no 
doubt,  many  a  punishment.  ...  A  Philistine  would 
have  taken  a  foolish  pleasure  in  robbing  the  good 
man  of  his  illusions.  I  quitted  him  without  re- 
vealing who  I  really  was,  and  told  no  one  there 
of  my  visit." 

The  faults  of  genius,  it  is  said,  should  be  viewed 
only  as  the  wrong  side  of  its  good  qualities.  As 
such  we  shall  now  mention  some  of  Gautier's  short- 
comings. He  lacked  chiefly  character.  So  brave 
against  the  Prussians,  so  bold  against  the  classi- 
cists, he  was  in  his  private  life  almost  a  coward. 
He  had  superstitions  such  as  would  have  shamed 
a  peasant  of  the  lower  Apennines.  He  would 
rather  starve  than  dine  at  a  table  where  thirteen 
were  seated.  Attached  to  his  watch-chain  he 
carried  coins  and  coral  charms,  with  which  he 
would  toy  like  a  Neapolitan  lazzarone  whenever  he 
met  any  one  who,  as  he  fancied,  had  the  jettatura. 
He  believed  that  Offenbach  possessed  above  all 


86  FRENCH  MEN   OF  LETTERS. 

men  this  wicked  fairy's  gift  of  the  evil-eye,  and 
could  not  be  forced  to  pronounce  his  name.  When 
he  was  obliged  to  criticise  any  work  of  the  cele- 
brated composer,  he  always  enlisted  the  services 
of  a  friend,  carefully  avoiding,  however,  to  pro- 
nounce the  former's  name. 

"Th^ophile  Gautier,"  writes  a  biographer, 
"was  a  strangely  impressionable  being.  All 
those  who  have  known  him  are  aware  of  his  hor- 
ror of  diseases,  patients,  hospitals,  and  the  like. 
Superstitious  as  an  Oriental,  he  saw  in  everything 
a  cause  of  death,  and  divinity  was  to  him  only  a 
malevolent  power  planning  our  destruction.  The 
slightest  indisposition  assumed  in  his  mind  the 
aspect  of  a  domestic  catastrophe,  and  mental  pros- 
tration would  then  overwhelm  him.  On  the  day 
that  he  fell  ill  with  congestion  of  the  lungs,  he 
thought  he  was  lost,  and  his  family  had  serious 
difficulty  in  destroying  the  deadly  impression 
which  this  belief  wrought  upon  his  mind." 

When  his  heart-disease  manifested  itself  with 
alarming  symptoms,  the  first  precaution  of  his 
family  was  to  examine  all  the  newspapers  which 
entered  the  house,  and  suppress  such — and  they 
were  not  a  few — as  anxiously  commented  upon 
his  case.  It  was  next  most  important  to  conceal 
from  him  the  nature  of  his  malady,  as  in  his  mind 
it  would  mean  nothing  short  of  death.  After 
some  time  he  ceased  to  ask  for  newspapers,  say- 
ing that  they  were  devoid  of  interest.     His  rela- 


THEOPHILE   GAUTIER.  87 

tives  relaxed  their  surveillance,  and  the  poet,  who 
had  purposely  simulated  indifference,  shortly  man- 
aged to  secure  all  the  newspapers  of  the  day.  He 
appeared  next  morning  at  breakfast,  his  face  pale 
and  distorted. 

"  So  I  have  heart-disease  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  Heart-disease  ?  What  an  idea,  dear  papa  !  '* 
said  one  of  his  daughters. 

"  After  all,  I  imagined  it  was  so,"  he  rejoined, 
and  left  the  room  with  a  bitter  laugh. 

From  that  day  he  gave  himself  up  as  a  dead 
man. 

Of  Gautier  it  may  be  most  truly  said  that  he 
never  harmed  any  one.  Amiable  to  all,  he  has, 
however,  been  severely  accused  of  even  the  slight- 
est involuntary  offenses  against  the  code  of  polite- 
ness by  evil-minded  fault-finders.  Being  very 
near-sighted,  he  frequently  confused  identities  in 
a  way  that  entailed  upon  him  some  very  disagree- 
able consequences.  He  therefore  resolved  to  rec- 
ognize nobody  in  the  street,  so  that  his  nearest 
friends  were  obliged  to  elbow  him  to  obtain  a 
salute.  His  physical  infirmity  was  denied  by  his 
detractors,  and  his  failing  was  explained  as  pride 
and  self-conceit.  One  day  Sainte-Beuve  entered 
the  office  of  "  Figaro,"  his  hat  seemingly  glued 
to  his  head. 

"  Are  you  wearing  Gautier's  hat  ?  "  asked  Yil- 
lemessant  sarcastically. 

The  sarcasm  was  so  clever  that  it  became  a 


88  FRENCH  MEN   OF  LETTERS. 

by-word  for  impoliteness,  despite  the  great  love 
that  the  Parisians  entertained  for  their  poet. 

Theophile  Gautier  left  two  daughters  and  a 
son,  Theophile,  Jr.,  a  clever  newspaper  writer 
and  a  worthy  functionary  of  the  republic.  Es- 
telle  Gautier  married  Bergerat,  the  poet's  biogra- 
pher. The  other  daughter,  Mme.  Judith,  who  is 
quite  famous  for  her  knowledge  of  the  Chinese 
tongue  and  her  curious  Chinese  novels,  married 
the  poet  Catulle  Mendes,  but  is  now  legally  sep- 
arated from  him.  She  is  one  of  Victor  Hugo's 
dearest  and  most  esteemed  friends,  and  the  critic 
to  whose  judgment  the  "  Eagle  of  Parnassus " 
pays  the  most  deference.  She  is  also  known  in 
the  literary  world  as  Judith  Walter. 

Gautier  died  at  Neuilly,  and  sleeps  in  the  cem- 
etery of  Montmartre.  A  monument  to  his  memory 
was  raised  by  national  subscription,  and  is  the 
work  of  the  sculptor  Godebski,  one  of  the  poet's 
friends.  The  muse  of  song  is  represented  weep- 
ing while  glancing  at  the  medallion  portrait  of 
the  great  poet.  Under  the  title,  "The  Tomb 
of  Theophile  Gautier,"  was  printed  a  book  of 
poems  in  his  memory.  The  list  of  living  poets 
who  paid  their  tributes  to  their  dead  brother  is 
headed  by  Victor  Hugo.  But  what  souvenir  do 
coming  generations  need,  more  powerful  to  recall 
Theophile  Gautier,  than  "  Le  Roman  de  la  Momie," 
"  La  Larme  du  Diable,"  and  "  La  Comedie  de  la 
Mort"? 


HENRI  MURGER.  89 


HENRI  MURGEE. 

"  Bohemia  is  the  stage  of  art  life  ;  the  ante- 
room to  the  Academy  or  to  the  Morgue.  Every 
man  who  enters  the  realm  of  art,  with  no  means 
of  existence  other  than  art  itself,  will  be  forced 
to  tread  the  paths  of  Bohemia.  Every  way  is 
practicable  for  Bohemians.  They  always  know 
how  to  avail  themselves  of  the  accidents  of  the 
road  ;  neither  rain  nor  dust,  neither  sunshine  nor 
shadows — nothing  arrests  these  bold  adventurers 
whose  every  vice  is  double-lined  with  a  virtue. 
Their  existence  is  in  itself  a  Avork  of  genius,  a 
daily  problem  which  they  solve  by  the  aid  of  the 
most  audacious  mathematics.  They  could  bor- 
row money  from  Harpagon,  and  dig  truffles  out 
of  the  head  of  Medusa.  When  compelled  to  do 
so,  they  know  how  to  practice  abstinence  with 
all  the  virtue  of  an  anchorite.  Should  fortune, 
however,  smile  never  so  faintly  upon  them,  they  at 
once  mount  the  most  ruinous  fancies,  and  can  not 
find  windows  enough  out  of  which  to  throw  away 
their  money.  The  last  franc  being  gone,  they  be- 
gin again  to  dine  at  the  table  d'hote  of  chance. 
From  morning  to  night  they  are  compelled  to 
chase  that  wary  animal  called  the  five-franc  piece. 
The  associations  of  the  Bohemian  depend  almost 
entirely  upon  the  condition  of  his  wardrobe  and 
the  state  of  his  finances.     You  meet  them  one 


90  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

day  leaning  against  the  mantelpiece  of  a  fashion- 
able salon,  and  on  the  morrow  sitting  around  the 
tables  of  the  lowest  cafe-concerts.  They  can  not 
walk  a  dozen  steps  on  the  Boulevard  without 
meeting  an  acquaintance,  and  not  thirty  steps 
anywhere  without  meeting  a  creditor.  Theirs  is 
a  life  of  watching  and  waiting  in  which  struggling 
is  of  no  avail  without  a  breastplate  of  indiffer- 
ence which  is  proof  against  the  blows  of  envy 
and  malice ;  a  life  which  has  its  charms  and  its 
terrors,  which  reckons  its  victors  and  its  martyrs, 
and  which  no  one  should  enter  who  is  not  ready 
in  advance  to  subject  himself  to  the  pitiless  law 
of  VsB  Yictis." 

In  this  way  did  Henri  Murger  address  himself 
to  the  writing  of  his  "  Vie  de  Boheme,"  of  which 
he  was  himself  the  type  and  the  incarnation.  He 
was,  however,  a  martyr  rather  than  a  victor.  He 
was  one  of  those  sympathetic  figures  which  for  a 
brief  period  shine  with  a  brilliancy  that  dazzles 
and  then  suddenly  disappear  before  fulfilling  their 
whole  destiny.  Murger  not  only  deserves  to  be 
treated  with  loving  leniency,  but  with  respect  and 
almost  admiration.  He  is  endued  vath  the  charm 
of  those  flowers  which  open  in  the  bright  light 
of  morning  and  close  before  the  hours  of  sun- 
set. Poets  who  have  no  time  to  grow  old  are 
like  children  who  die  in  the  cradle  and  of  whom 
we  know  but  the  unconscious  tears  and  smiles. 
When   such  men  hasten,   by  their   own   doing, 


HENRI  MURGER.  91 

the  catastrophe  of  their  deaths  ;  when  they  do 
not  heed  friendly  admonitions,  but  persist  in  out- 
raging every  physical  law,  this  error  of  theirs 
should  excite  compassion  rather  than  blame. 
Reasons  are  not  wanting  for  bestowing  a  gener- 
ous pardon  upon  those  who,  unwittingly  losing 
the  right  path,  harm  nobody  but  themselves.  We 
should  question  ourselves  as  to  whether  genius  is 
not,  after  all,  among  the  elect,  a  sort  of  brilliant 
infirmity  which  forces  them  to  squander  the  gifts 
of  nature.  We  should  examine  whether  the  fault 
lies  not  with  our  age,  with  their  education,  with 
flattery,  with  the  atmosphere  in  which  they  breathe, 
and  with  ourselves  who  have  made  of  them  spoiled 
children. 

From  the  standpoint  of  public  curiosity  no 
life,  I  think,  is  so  deserving  of  illustration  as  that 
of  this  King  of  Bohemia.  Both  Mirecourt  and 
Larousse  say  he  was  born  in  Paris,  but  Armand 
de  Pontmartin,  who  was  a  life-long  friend  of  Mur- 
ger,  claims  that  he  was  bom  in  Savoy  (1822) 
whence  his  father  removed  to  Paris  and  pursued 
the  calling  of  a  tailor  and  a  janitor.  It  is  cer- 
tain, however,  that  Murger's  boyhood  was  passed 
in  an  atmosphere  of  art.  His  brightness  made 
him  the  pet  of  Malibran  and  Lablache,  the  play- 
mate of  Pauline  Garcia,  and  the  little  protege  of 
Jouy,  an  academician,  who  had  written  some  bad 
tragedies,  and  whose  library  was  composed  of 
bottles  of  rare  wines,  hidden  behind  book-covers 


92  FRENCH   MEN   OF  LETTERS. 

bearing  the  names  of  the  classics  of  every  litera- 
ture. Murger's  mother,  although  by  no  means  a 
literary  woman,  opposed  with  all  her  might  the 
idea  of  educating  her  son  to  hard  manual  labor, 
and  especially  against  his  spending  his  life  on  a 
tailor's  bench.  The  altercations  between  herself 
and  her  husband,  who  held  opposite  views,  would 
make  good  material  for  a  comedy.  As  usual,  the 
better  half  conquered,  and  the  boy  received  such 
a  literary  education  as  their  limited  means  could 
compass.  He  displayed  so  much  aptitude  that 
his  mother  had  good  reason  to  congratulate  herself 
on  her  triumph.  Through  Monsieur  Jouy,  Henri, 
at  the  age  of  sixteen,  secured  the  position  of  sec- 
retary to  Count  Tolstoy,  a  Russian  nobleman, 
who  filled  at  Paris  the  double  mission  of  keeping 
the  Russian  Secretary  of  Public  Instruction  in- 
formed of  all  that  occurred  at  the  French  capital 
in  connection  with  that  officer's  department  and 
of  informing  the  Czar  of  current  political  events. 
The  young  secretary  was  employed  in  transmit- 
ting the  private  dispatches  to  the  Emperor  at  the 
princely  remuneration  of  forty  francs  a  month. 
But  he  soon  displayed  an  intelligence  too  high  to 
suit  the  purpose  of  a  diplomatic  spy,  and  his  posi- 
tion became  a  sinecure.  But  for  the  fear  of  ex- 
posures, he  would  doubtless  have  been  discharged 
at  an  early  date.  At  the  end  of  the  third  year 
of  his  secretaryship  Murger  entered  the  house  of 
Count  Tolstoy  only  to  receive  his  salary. 


HENRI  MURGER.  93 

The  leisure  thus  afforded  him  had  been  em- 
ployed in  studying  the  French  poets,  particularly 
Victor  Hugo..  His  first  poetical  effort  was  a  sat- 
ire against  the  self-styled  poet  Barthelemi,  the 
man  who,  in  his  "  Nemesis,"  maintained  that — 

"  L'homme  absurd  est  celui  qui  ne  change  jamais." 

Murger  thought  that  he  changed  too  often, 
and  fulminated  with  all  the  youthful  wrath  of  his 
nature  against  his  apostasies.  Murger  and  Bar- 
thelemi, who  did  not  know  each  other,  eventually 
met  at  the  office  of  the  printer  who  was  to  issue 
the  satire.  Barthelemi  was  just  perusing  the  sat- 
ire alluded  to,  when  Murger  entered  the  shop. 
"  What  do  you  think  of  the  poem,  monsieur  ? " 
asked  the  youth.  "  Frankly,  I  think  it  is  a  piece 
of  nonsense.  The  meter  is  wrong,"  replied  Bar- 
thelemi, who  directly  launched  into  a  stricture  of 
Murger's  book.  The  remarks  of  the  critic  struck 
the  author  so  forcibly  that  the  latter  immediately 
took  steps  to  prevent  the  issue  of  the  satire,  and 
thanked  the  gentleman  for  enlightening  him. 
Fancy  Murger's  astonishment  when  he  learned 
who  his  critic  was  ! 

The  nominal  secretary  devoted  most  of  his 
time  to  preparing  articles  for  "  L' Artiste "  and 
"  Le  Corsaire,"  a  couple  of  humorous  journals  fed 
by  a  host  of  young  writers  who  strove  for  fame 
by  indulging  in  every  manner  of  eccentricity. 
Murger  was  daily  to  furnish  "  Le  Corsaire  "  with 


94  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

copy  for  a  f euilleton  which  bore  the  title  of  "  Or- 
bassan  le  Confident,"  when  suddenly  the  revolu- 
tion of  1848  came  to  overthrow  the  government 
of  Louis  Philippe.  In  such  extraordinary  cir- 
cumstances, after  ten  years  of  conge.  Count  Tol- 
stoy required  the  assistance  of  his  secretary. 
Murger  was  thus  obliged  to  alternate  copying 
dispatches  with  furnishing  matter  to  the  jour- 
nals. In  a  moment  of  distraction  he  addressed 
his  feuilleton  to  the  Czar,  and  the  dispatch  in- 
tended for  the  latter  to  the  editor  of  the  paper. 
Plis  mistake  naturally  enough  assumed  the  propor- 
tion of  a  crime  against  his  employer.  This,  to- 
gether with  some  other  aggravating  circumstances, 
resulted  in  Murger  shortly  ceasing  to  present  him- 
self at  the  doors  of  Count  Tolstoy,  even  on  the 
agreeable  pretext  of  drawing  his  salary.  Forty 
francs  a  month  is  by  no  means  a  princely  income, 
but  it  is  doubtless  better  than  nothing,  and  Mur- 
ger now  found  himself  at  a  loss  how  to  provide 
for  his  sustenance.  To  make  matters  worse,  his 
loving  mother  had  died.  The  tailor,  his  father, 
now  feeling  himself  free,  treated  the  young  man 
with  a  long  pent-up  severity.  IN'ot  forgiving  his 
son  for  preferring  the  quill  to  the  goose,  the  old 
barbarian  drove  him  out  of  the  apartments  in 
which  they  lodged. 

From  this  time  begins  Murger's  life  as  a  thor- 
ough Bohemian.  His  existence  became  actually 
a  tour  de  force.     Probably,  outside  of  the  regu- 


HENRI  MURGER.  95 

lar  tramp,  there  is  not  on  this  side  of  the  Atlan- 
tic such  an  example  of  want  and  endurance  as 
that  afforded  by  Murger. 

Too  earnestly  loving  art,  he  could  not  create  fast 
enough  to  produce  comfort.  He  felt  so  strongly 
inclined  toward  poetry  that  he  seldom  would  yield 
to  necessity  and  write  prose.  For  no  considera- 
tion would  he  hasten  to  write  anything.  His 
articles,  elaborated  as  they  were  with  the  utmost 
care,  cost  him  as  much  time  and  pains  as  the 
production  of  a  fine  cameo  would  an  engraver. 
Murger  would  frequently  live  for  weeks  on  dry 
bread  rather  than,  as  he  said,  prostitute  art. 
With  his  good  friend  Champfleury,  he  lived  in  a 
garret,  often  from  want  of  fire  unable  to  work 
otherwise  than  in  bed. 

The  quiet  of  the  night  he  found  particularly 
favorable  for  labor.  All  that  he  needed  was  a 
number  of  cups  of  coffee  such  as  would  have  ruined 
the  health  of  Balzac.  He  frequently  used  as  many 
as  six  ounces  in  a  single  night.  A  disease,  con- 
tracted by  leading  for  many  years  a  life  like  this, 
made  him  a  frequent  inmate  of  the  hospital  of  St. 
Louis.  To  understand  how  far  the  struggle  may 
be  carried  between  talent  and  misery,  one  must  read 
the  correspondence  between  Murger  and  his  Bohe- 
mian friends.  And  yet  how  quickly  could  his 
poetic  soul  forget  wretchedness  and  grief  when- 
ever a  five-franc  piece  entered  his  pocket.  "  My 
patron  (the  editor  of  *  L' Artiste ')  has  advanced 
7 


96  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

me  three  hundred  and  fifty  francs,"  he  once  "wrote 
to  a  confrere^  "  and  he  assures  me  that  I  shall  have 
a  hundred  and  fifty  more  in  a  few  months.  Fancy 
my  bewilderment  when  I  received  this  astound- 
ing news.  I  rushed  at  once  to  Rothschild's  to 
have  the  check  cashed  ;  thence  I  proceeded  to  my 
bookseller,  thence  to  my  tailor,  from  the  tailor  to 
the  restaurant — and  I  tell  you  I  was  fearfully  hun- 
gry. From  there  I  went  to  the  theatre,  and  thence 
to  the  cafe,  I  returned  home  quite  early,  and 
there  is  no  saying  how  happy  I  was  when  I 
plunged  into  my  bed  covered  with  new  linen 
sheets,  in  an  atmosphere  of  perfumed  smoke  such 
as  •  I  had  not  inhaled  in  a  long  while.  What  a 
glorious  night's  sleep  I  have  had  !  I  dreamt  that 
I  was  the  Emperor  of  Morocco,  and  that  I  had 
married  the  bank  of  France.  But,  alas  !  a  great 
portion  of  the  sum  which  I  had  pocketed  is  al- 
ready gone." 

A  letter  of  Champfleury  to  him,  published  in 
the  "  Contes  d'Automne,"  further  illustrates  the 
'singular  life  they  led  at  the  time.  It  will,  per- 
haps, be  interesting  to  our  readers  to  reproduce 
a  few  paragraphs  therefrom. 

"It  is  nine  years  since  we  lived  together. 
Our  income  was  seventy  francs  a  month.  Full  of 
confidence  in  the  future,  we  rented  a  small  apart- 
ment in  the  Rue  Yaugirard,  which  cost  us  three 
hundred  francs.  Youth  does  not  calculate.  You 
were  so  gentlemanly  in  appearance,  and  you  had 


HENRI  MURGER.  97 

spoken  to  the  housekeeper  of  such  a  sumptuous 
set  of  furniture,  that  the  good  soul  rented  you 
the  apartments  without  asking  for  any  reference. 
You  brought  in  six  plates,  three  of  which  were 
porcelain,  a  Shakespeare,  the  works  of  Victor 
Hugo,  a  bureau  of  incalculable  age,  and  a  Phry- 
gian cap"  (the  Bohemian's  emblem).  "By  the 
greatest  chance  I  was  the  owner  of  two  mattresses, 
a  bedstead,  one  hundred  and  eighty  volumes,  an 
arm-chair,  two  small  chairs,  a  table,  and  a  human 
skull.  We  scarcely  ever  went  out,  we  worked  a 
good  deal,  and  smoked  continually.  I  find  among 
my  papers  a  leaf  upon  which  the  following  words 
are  written  : 

BEATRIX : 

A  Drama  in  Five  Acts 

BY 

Henri  Mueger. 

Represented  at  the  Theatre 

On ,  18—. 

"  This  page  was  torn  from  an  enormous  copy- 
book, as  you  had  the  bad  habit  of  using  all  the 
paper  to  write  the  titles  of  your  dramas  on.  You 
seriously  added  the  word  *  represented,'  in  order 
to  better  judge  of  the  effect  of  the  whole  title. 
The  days  of  our  greatest  misery  came.  After  a 
long  discussion,  in  which  we  severely  reproached 
each  other  for  the  extravagance  that  characterized 
all  our  outlays,  we  determined  that,  as  soon  as  our 


98  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

income  was  drawn,  we  would  note  down  our  ex- 
penditures in  a  memorandum-book.  I  find  this 
book,  also,  among  my  papers.  It  is  simple,  touch- 
ing, and,  despite  its  brevity,  full  of  souvenirs. 
We  were  wonderfully  honest  at  the  beginning  of 
every  month.  Under  the  date  of  November  1, 
1843,  I  read  :  '  Paid  to  Mme.  Bastien  for  tobac- 
co, two  francs.'  We  used  also  to  pay  our  grocer, 
the  coalman,  and  the  restaurant  (will  you  believe 
it  ?  it  is  there  written  restaurant).  The  first  day 
of  the  month  was  seemingly  a  revel.  I  find  : 
*  Spent  at  the  cafe  five  sous ' — a  foolish  expense 
which,  I  am  sure,  must  have  entailed  upon  me 
many  scoldings.  On  that  day — I  am  frightened 
while  saying  it — you  bought  fifteen  sous  worth  of 
pipes. 

"  On  November  2d,  you  pay  a  considerable 
sum  (five  francs)  to  the  washerwoman.  .  .  .  On 
the  3d,  you  determine  that  as  long  as  the  sev- 
enty francs  last  we  shall  do  our  own  cooking. 
Accordingly,  you  buy  a  soup-pot  (fifteen  sous), 
some  vegetables,  and  some  laurel  leaves.  In  your 
capacity  of  poet  you  cherished  laurel  very  much 
— our  soup  was  constantly  afflicted  with  it.  We 
made  also  a  provision  of  potatoes,  tobacco,  sugar, 
and  coffee.  Gnashing  of  teeth,  and  some  swear- 
ing, marked  the  inscribing  in  our  book  of  the  ex- 
penses of  November  4th. 

"  Why  did  you  let  me  go  out  with  so  much 
money  in  my  pockets  ?  .  .  .  Under  the  pretext 


i 


HENRI  MURGER.  99 

of  going  to  hear  a  drama  at  Belleville,  for  which 
I  had  a  complimentary  ticket,  I  twice  took  the 
stage — to  go  and  to  come.  Two  stages  !  I  was 
rigorously  punished  for  my  lavishness.  Through 
a  hole  in  my  pocket,  three  francs  and  seventy  cen- 
times disappeared.  How  was  I  to  enter  the  house 
and  meet  your  wrath?  The  two  stages  would 
alone  call  for  a  reprimand  ;  but  the  three  francs 
and  seventy  centimes  !  Had  I  not  disarmed  your 
anger  in  advance  by  telling  you  all  about  the 
drama  at  Belleville,  I  would  have  been  actually 
lost. 

"  And  yet,  on  the  morrow,  heedless  of  our  ter- 
rible loss,  we  lent  an  enormous  sum,  thirty-five 

sous,  to  G ,  who  seemingly  had  decided  upon 

us  as  his  regular  bankers  (the  house  of  Murger 
&  Co.).  .  .  . 

"  Up  to  November  8th  we  dutifully  make  the 
addition  at  the  foot  of  the  pages  of  our  ledger. 
By  that  time  forty  francs,  sixty-one  centimes  had 
disappeared.  We  thenceforward  gave  up  the  pro- 
cess of  finding  sum  totals.  We  undoubtedly  did 
not  relish  shivering  at  the  sight  of  the  totals.  .  .  . 
Under  date  of  the  14th  we  are  compelled  to  call 
on  Mr.  Credit.  Mr.  Credit  goes  to  the  grocer's, 
the  tobacconist's,  and  the  coalman's.  He  is  not 
very  badly  received  :  assuming  your  form,  he 
has  a  very  great  success  with  the  grocer's  daugh- 
ter. Is  Mr.  Credit  dead  on  the  17th?  I  find 
registered  :   *  From  Prince  Albert,  three  francs.' 


100  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

This  sum  came  from  the  Mont-de-Pike,  which,  by 
the  way,  should  be  called  Mont- sans- PietL  Has 
not  this  institution  dreadfully  humiliated  us 
through  its  clerks  ?  Three  francs  for  my  unique 
Prince  Albert,  and  half  this  sum,  too,  to  be  lent 

to  our  tireless  persecutor  G .     On  I^Tovember 

19th  we  sold  some  books.  Fortune  having  smiled 
upon  us,  we  had  a  boiled  chicken,  with  much  laurel, 
for  our  dinner.  Mr.  Credit  continues  with  aston- 
ishing sang-froid  to  go  to  market  for  us.  He 
presents  himself  everywhere  up  to  December  1st, 
when  he  pays  in  full  all  his  debts. 

"  I  have  only  one  regret — to  see  that  our  ledger 
closes  with  the  new  month.  It  is  not  enough.  Had 
we  continued,  it  would  have  afforded  us  many 
landmarks  that  could  have  enabled  us  to  recall 
our  youth — the  glorious  time  when,  from  our  little 
balcony,  of  all  the  gardens  of  the  Luxembourg 
we  could  see  but  a  single  tree,  and  this,  too,  only 
by  stretching  ourselves  out  of  the  window  ! " 

But  their  term  having  expired,  the  friends 
were  compelled  to  move  from  their  paradise  in  the 
Rue  Yaugirard,  and  to  return  to  the  old  garret 
in  the  Rue  Doyenne,  common  to  all  the  band  of 
Bohemians  who  had  their  headquarters  at  the 
Cafe  "Momus."  The  singular  life  which  this 
tribe  led  at  the  coffee-house  would,  were  it  fully 
described,  read  like  a  fancy  sketch.  I  can  but 
refer  the  reader  to  Murger's  own  "Yie  de  Bo- 
heme,"  which  has  immortalized  Bohemianism.    Be 


HENRI  MURGEH.  ,,101 

it  sufficient  to  say  that  their' presence  drove  all 
the  other  patrons  from  the  place  and  the  proprie- 
tor to  the  verge  of  ruin. 

The  king  of  the  Bohemians  and  his  viceroy 
Champfleury  were,  however,  too  good-hearted  not 
to  repair,  as  far  as  they  could,  the  injuries  which 
their  brethren  had  inflicted  upon  Mons.  Louvet, 
the  proprietor  of  the  cafe.  Champfleury,  in  the 
"Evenement"  and  the  "Corsaire,"  to  which  he 
was  an  occasional  contributor,  and  Murger  in  the 
two  precarious  sheets  "  Le  Moniteur  de  la  Mode  " 
and  "Le  Castor,"  of  which  he  was  the  editor, 
published  the  news  that  in  the  cellar  of  the  "  Caf  6 
Momus"  two  old  trunks  had  been  discovered 
which  were  literally  crammed  with  MSS.  by  the 
author  of  "  Le  Chevalier  de  Faublas."  All  the 
other  papers  in  Paris  reproduced  the  paragraph. 
The  result  was  that  for  many  days  a  throng  of 
visitors  continually  poured  into  the  cafe  anxious 
to  see  the  famous  manuscripts.  It  is  needless  to 
say  that,  in  order  to  establish  themselves  in  the 
good  graces  of  Mons.  Louvet,  they  ate  and  drank 
freely  and  paid  handsomely,  and  that  the  worthy 
proprietor  was  in  no  hurry  to  undeceive  them. 

"  La  Vie  de  Boh^me  "  was  first  published  as 
feuilletons  in  the  "Corsaire,"  Murger  receiving 
but  fifteen  francs  for  each  installment.  It  is  not 
my  purpose  to  analyze  this  strange  book,  but  I 
can  not  refrain  from  saying  that  it  contains  pages 
unsurpassed  by  any  poet  or  prose-writer.     All  the 


102  FRENCH  M;EN  OF  LETTERS. 

struggles  and  heartaches  of  the  life  he  portrays  are 
described  with  a  vividness  and  a  touch  of  melan- 
choly such  as  might  have  filled  the  heart  of  one  who 
was  never  to  grow  old.  The  two  types  of  women 
who  are  the  heroines  of  the  romance — Musette 
and  Mimi  Pinson — will  ever  remain  as  models  to 
any  one  who  aims  to  depict  character  with  a  life- 
like glow  and  truth.  Jules  Janin,  who  was  any- 
thing but  partial  to  Bohemianism  and  its  adepts, 
thus  expressed  himself  regarding  this  book : 
"Criticising  is  of  no  use.  This  volume  is  on 
every  table.  It  has  already  charmed  the  youth 
of  two  generations  ;  and  the  third,  which  is  hard- 
ly rising,  knows  it  by  heart.  'La  Vie  de  Bo- 
heme '  and  '  Les  Chansons  de  Beranger '  are  the 
first  chapter  of  the  code  of  life.  Do  and  de- 
claim as  you  will,  the  book  will  remain.  It  is 
adopted,  and  nothing  can  distract  from  it  the 
generation  that  is  passing,  and  still  less  the  men 
of  coming  generations." 

The  success  which  he  thus  achieved  intro- 
duced some  changes  into  Murger's  style  of  living. 
He  was  no  longer  obliged  to  subsist  on  a  meal  a 
day,  or  perhaps  a  meal  in  two  days.  He  took 
lodging  in  Rue  Mazarine,  in  the  same  house 
where  lived  Proudhon,  the  socialist.  Mirecouii; 
relates  an  anecdote  which  touches  upon  both  of 
these  men.  "The  author  of  the  *Vie  de  Bo- 
heme '  used  occasionally  to  meet,  in  the  dark  hall- 
way upon  which  his  room  opened,  a  man  who 


HENRI  MURGER.  103 

habitually  carried  a  loaf  of  bread  and  a  bottle  of 
wine  in  his  arms.  No  one  certainly  would  have 
recognized  in  him  the  destroyer  who  was  shortly 
to  attempt  the  reduction  of  society  to  a  heap  of 
ruins.  Frequently  noticing  a  light  burning  in 
this  man's  room  at  a  late  hour,  Murger  mistook 
him  for  an  industrious  workman  who  sacriificed 
some  hours'  rest  to  labor.  Great  was  his  surprise 
when,  in  1848,  he  learned  that  his  fellow-lodger 
had  suddenly  risen  to  a  prominent  place.  Proud- 
hon  had  founded  his  notorious  journal  *Le  Re- 
presentant  du  Peuple.'  Reading  this  sheet  one 
evening,  Murger  happened  to  fall  upon  a  fero- 
cious article  against  letters  and  learning.  His 
neighbor  declared  that  a  boatman  of  the  Tiber 
was  a  more  useful  man  than  the  author  of  the 
*  Orientales.'  Murger's  indignation  knew  no 
bounds.  Determined  to  answer  this  blasphemous 
article  on  the  spot,  he  looked  for  a  pen,  but  could 
not  find  any.     Neither  could  his  landlord. 

"  *  Wait  a  moment ! '  cried  the  latter.  *  I  will 
go  to  M.  Proudhon,  who  always  has  a  host  of 
them.' 

"  '  Good  ! '  replied  Murger,  *  the  affair  will  be 
all  the  droller.' 

"  And  the  pen  of  the  terrible  socialist  served 
for  the  scathing  refutation  which  next  day  ap- 
peared in  the  *  Dix  Decembre. ' " 

His  entry  at  the  "  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes  " 
was  the  most  decisive  point  in  the  career  of  Mur- 


k 


104  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

ger.  Having  to  write  for  a  public  more  intel- 
lectual and  sober  than  the  usual  readers  of  popu- 
lar newspapers,  he  elevated  the  standard  of  his 
style  and  conceptions.  His  heroes,  it  is  true,  did 
not  widely  differ  from  those  of  his  previous  per- 
formances, but  his  analytic  power  became  deeper 
and  stronger,  his  idea  of  the  aim  of  art  broader 
and  higher.  His  hand  was  steadier  now  when 
he  dealt  with  character.  To  the  "  Revue  "  he  gave 
*'Le  Pays  Latin,"  "Adeline  Protat,""Les  Bu-- 
veurs  d'Eau,"  and  other  stories,  which  together 
with  his  lyrics,  "  Les  Nuits  d'Hiver,"  display  a 
notable  advance  upon  his  former  productions. 

To  the  beneficial  influence  which  his  connec- 
tion with  the  "  Revue  "  exercised  over  the  ex-Bo- 
hemian, another  must  be  added.  He  loved  nature 
with  all  his  heart,  and  his  longing  to  live  in  the 
midst  of  a  beautiful  landscape  caused  him  to  quit 
Paris  and  settle  at  Marlotte,  near  the  forest  of 
Fontainebleau,  where  the  latter  has  most  pre- 
served the  traces  of  its  old  grandeur.  In  this 
picturesque  village  he  passed  the  last  years  of  his 
life.  If  anything  could  restore  health  to  his 
body  and  serenity  to  his  soul,  it  was  certainly 
this  open-air  life,  amid  rural  yet  domestic  scenery, 
the  calm  and  wholesome  perfume  of  which  he  has 
so  well  depicted  in  "  Adeline  Protat." 

But  the  torrid  zones  of  Paris,  in  which  he 
had  so  long  existed,  had  scourged  him,  physically 
and  morally,  beyond  radical  cure.    Unfortunately, 


HENRI  MURGER.  105 

he  had  imitated  those  patients  who  defer  treat- 
ment until  their  maladies  are  incurable.  Paris, 
and  its  associations,  too,  haunted  him  like  a  mer- 
ciless creditor,  who  can  not  be  avoided  by  run- 
ning away.  The  improvement  which  he  experi- 
enced did  not  long  continue  ;  but  he  profited  by 
his  leisure  and  freedom  from  care  to  give  form 
to  his  noblest  conceptions.  The  traces  of  his  bet- 
tered condition  are  particularly  found  in  the  "  Bu- 
veurs  d'Eau."  The  type  of  a  grandmother  who, 
in  order  to  be  of  help  to  her  grandchildren  in 
their  artistic  careers,  does  not  hesitate  to  become 
their  servant,  was  drawn  with  a  vigor  that  might 
have  challenged  the  pen  of  Balzac.  The  episode 
of  Hel^ne  is  full  of  ideal  beauty.  The  progress 
of  her  love  for  Antoine  is  drawn  in  a  most  exqui- 
site and  affecting  manner.  The  scene  of  the 
promenade  on  the  rocky  beach  when  Antoine, 
seized  by  dizziness,  is  saved  by  Helene,  strength- 
ened tenfold  by  love,  from  falling  into  the  abyss, 
can,  in  point  of  elevated  description  and  pathos, 
sustain  comparison  with  any  like  situation  in  the 
whole  realm  of  fiction. 

If  it  be  true,  as  Lessing  has  said,  that  when 
the  devil  holds  a  man  by  a  hair,  he  owns  his  whole 
body,  it  might  be  added  that  in  modern  life  there 
are  many  devils  who  unceasingly  persecute  us  if 
we  but  once  listen  to  their  suggestions.  Three  of 
these  demons  always  shadowed  the  path  of  Mur- 
ger — the  small  press,  the  theatre,  and  the  Louis 


106  FRENCH   MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

d'or.  The  effects  which  his  early  connection  with 
insignificant  papers  had  on  Murger's  life  has  al- 
ready been  sufficiently  told.  To  write  for  the 
stage  was  the  dream  of  his  soul.  What  novel- 
ist has  not  longed  for  dramatic  success? — and, 
though  these  two  sorts  of  literature  are  widely  dif- 
ferent, what  writer  of  fiction  has  not  been  enticed 
by  the  greater  profits  which  the  stage  affords? 
Murger,  by  temperament,  was  fitted  to  be  anything 
but  a  playwright.  He  was  a  refined  artist,  nervous, 
indolent,  fantastic,  and  dreamy,  in  every  way  ill 
adapted  to  attempt  the  work  of  play- writing.  He 
did  not,  however,  escape  the  general  contagion. 
The  success  achieved  by  the  dramatization  of  the 
"  Vie  de  Boheme  "  should,  I  am  inclined  to  be- 
lieve, be  credited  to  his  collaborator  Theodore  Bar- 
ri^re  rather  than  to  himself.  It  deeply  grieved 
him  to  behold  the  good  luck  of  others  in  this  line, 
who  he  knew  had  less  talent  than  himself.  Armand 
de  Pontmartin  relates  that  during  his  closing  years 
Murger,  whenever  he  met  a  friend,  would  converse 
of  nothing  but  skeletons  of  plays,  scenic  effects,  sit- 
uations, and  already  finished  and  accepted  dramas 
— the  latter,  however,  existing  only  in  his  imagi- 
nation. He  was  frequently  seen  in  the  vestibules 
of  theatres  on  first  nights,  sad  and  thoughtful,  un- 
dergoing the  torments  of  Tantalus.  The  feeling 
of  his  superiority,  and  the  consciousness  of  his 
special  inaptitude,  formed  for  him  a  perpetual 
nightmare  that  engendered  in  him  such  a  disgust 


HENRI  MURGER.  107 

for  work  that  he  could  conquer  it  but  for  a  short 
interval.  Everything  thus  conspired  to  fatigue 
his  brain  and  trouble  his  peace. 

It  has  been  said  that  Murger  had  a  great 
contempt  for  money.  This  is  probably  not  true. 
Contempt  for  worldly  wealth  is,  since  Diogenes 
and  Seneca,  a  very  creditable  feeling,  provided  it 
be  sincere  and  practical.  To  do  without  and  not 
think  of  it,  is  well ;  but  to  fret  over  its  absence  is 
by  no  means  a  mark  of  virtue.  This  latter  was 
the  mode  in  which  Murger,  like  nearly  all  Bohe- 
mians, despised  money.  His  poverty  was  not  such 
as  to  command  respect.  It  was  due  tosuperfluous 
wants,  to  satisfy  which  no  amount  of  money  would 
have  sufficed. 

On  seeing  him,  however,  it  would  have  been 
difficult  to  pass  upon  him  so  severe  a  judgment. 
That  brow,  already  wasted  ;  that  visage  whose  re- 
fined features  bore  the  stamp  of  mental  fatigue, 
of  privation,  to  say  nothing  of  excesses  ;  that 
sweet,  mocking,  sad  physiognomy,  upon  which 
comedy  and  elegy  in  turn  depicted  themselves — 
this  ensemble  profoundly  impressed  the  beholder, 
drew  forth  sympathy,  excited  mingled  emotions 
of  astonishment  and  inquietude.  While  beholding 
this  man,  still  young,  bald-headed,  attired  in  a 
black  coat  of  many  seasons,  one  could  not  help 
feeling  for  him  a  kind  curiosity  and  a  melancholy 
presentiment.  He  recalled  one  of  those  Shake- 
spearean creations  in  which  the  burst  of  laughter 


108  FRENCH   MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

blends  with  the  wail  of  sorrow,  in  which  tragedy- 
plays  with  the  skull  of  poor  Yorick. 

In  the  beginning  of  the  year  1861,  Murger 
seems  to  have  been  forewarned  that  the  closing 
scene  was  at  hand.  His  "  Testament "  is  the  song 
of  the  dying  swan. 

He  died  suddenly  on  the  28th  of  January,  1861. 
All  the  Parisian  celebrities  followed  his  funeral. 
The  Government  took  to  itself  the  honor  of  de- 
fraying all  the  outlay  incident  to  consigning  the 
remains  of  the  poet  to  their  last  resting-place. 
His  tomb,  by  the  sculptor  Millet,  is  one  of  the 
masterpieces  in  the  cemetery  of  Montmartre. 

^Bohemia  consigned  him  neither  to  the  Acade- 
my nor  to  the  Morgue,  but  to  Posterity. 


SAMTE-BEUYE. 

Satxte-Beuve  may  be  styled  the  prince  of 
modern  critics,  although  his  judgments  are  fre- 
quently worthless.  His  life  was  a  series  of  con- 
tradictions, but  he  always  offered  some  good  rea- 
son to  support  his  changes  of  opinion.  He  pos- 
sessed a  marvelous  power  of  analysis,  united  with 
an  involved  and  perplexing  vagueness  of  decision. 
His  writings  are  sprinkled  with  fine  thoughts, 
with  characterizations  most  direct  and  telling, 
but  the  whole  resembles  a  ragged  coat  patched 


SAINTE-BEUVE.  109 

with  pieces  of  cloth  of  the  most  varied  materials 
and  colors.  He  possessed,  of  all  his  contempora- 
ries, the  greatest  skill  in  pen  delineations,  and 
yet  none  of  his  literary  portraits  at  all  resemble 
the  originals.  Envy  and  enthusiasm,  rancor  and 
generosity,  in  turn  guided  his  pen  and  warped 
his  judgment.  He  often  amused  himself  by  de- 
stroying reputations  which  he  had  toiled  to  es- 
tablish. Under  his  treatment  De  Musset  was, 
while  living,  now  good  and  now  bad,  but  on  the 
death  of  the  poet  the  critic  placed  him  in  the 
brightest  constellation  of  song.  Chateaubriand 
alive  he  lauded  to  the  skies,  and  even  boasted  of 
the  patronage  of  that  great  writer  ;  but  Chateau- 
briand dead  he  pursued  with  a  malignant,  uncom- 
promising bitterness.  Hugo  was  to  him  first  a 
demigod,  and  last  a  demagogue  and  a  barbarian. 
He  was  the  apostle  of  the  greatness  of  George 
Sand  when  she  was  yet  a  neophyte  in  the  literary 
domain,  and  did  not  hesitate  in  the  heyday  of  her 
fame  to  tear  both  the  author  and  the  woman  to 
pieces.  His  letters  to  the  Abbe  Barbe  bear  wit- 
ness to  his  piety,  and  then  he  became  the  support- 
er of  Renan.  His  first  productions  were  written 
in  the  idiom  common  to  all  his  countrymen  ;  but 
in  his  desire  to  resemble  none  of  his  contempora- 
ries or  his  ancestors  he  created  the  strange,  dis- 
torted, tenebrous  style  which  renders  the  compre- 
hension of  his  books  as  difficult  as  the  reading  of 
Dante  without  a  glossary.     Well  might  he  ex- 


110  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

claim,  "  Je  suis  I'esprit  le  plus  rompu  aux  meta- 
morplioses." 

Sainte-Beuve  used  so  little  discretion  when  he 
invaded  the  private  lives  of  others  that  his  mem- 
ory can  not  complain  of  the  criticisms  to  which  it 
must  fall  a  prey.  I  hope  to  avoid  the  injustice 
which  has  frequently  characterized  the  estimates 
of  his  character,  but  can  not  forbear  stating  that 
as  a  private  man  he  was  no  more  consistent  than 
as  a  writer.  He  was  alternately  a  coward  and  a 
lion  ;  now  weak  and  wavering,  and  now  bold, 
strong,  and  uncompromising  ;  now  full  of  feel- 
ing, and  now  heartless  and  selfish  in  the  highest 
degree  ;  now  ambitious  beyond  expression,  and 
now  careless  of  honors  to  which  he  was  entitled. 
Well  was  he  characterized  by  Buloz,  the  founder 
and  editor  of  the  "Revue  des  Deux  Mondes," 
when  he  called  him  "  a  sheep  crazy  with  rancor, 
but  lacking  strength  for  revenge." 

Charles  Augustin  Sainte-Beuve  was  bom,  un- 
der extraordinary  circumstances,  on  the  22d  of 
December,  1804.  The  love  of  his  father  for  Au- 
gustine Coillot  is  in  itself  a  strange  story.  The 
couple  were  lovers  for  twenty  years  before  their 
maiTiage.  Mile.  Coillot  was  forty-two  years  old 
and  Charles  Fran9ois  Sainte-Beuve  fifty-six  when 
the  wedding  ceremony  took  place.  The  husband 
died  eight  months  afterward,  without  having  the 
happiness  of  pressing  to  his  bosom  a  son  who  was, 
like  himself,  to  be  a  bibliomaniac,  a  poet,  and  a  > 


SAINTE-BEUVE.  .  HI 

critic.  It  is  strange  to  note  how  much  the  boy 
took  from  his  father,  whom  he  never  knew,  and 
how  little  from  his  mother,  who  lived  with  him 
till  she  was  eighty-six  years  old.  Not  only  had 
he  his  father's  taste  for  old  books,  the  same  pro- 
clivity for  filling  the  margins  of  leaves  with  notes 
and  comments,  but  his  handwriting  so  resembled 
that  of  his  father  that  in  his  old  age  Charles  Au- 
gustin  could  not  distinguish  between  the  two. 
His  reverence  for  the  memory  of  his  father 
ceased  only  with  his  life.  Mme.  Sainte-Beuve, 
though  she  struggled  against  all  sorts  of  difficul- 
ties for  his  support,  and  was  wholly  devoted  to 
him,  was  but  poorly  repaid  by  her  son.  He  would 
treat  her  most  rudely  whenever  the  kind-hearted, 
intellectual  woman  ventured  to  express  any  of  her 
literary  opinions. 

Educated  by  his  mother  and  his  aunt,  Sainte- 
Beuve  resembled  in  his  boyhood  a  sort  of  earthly 
cherub.  He  passed  half  his  time  in  prayers,  served 
mass  with  great  fervor,  rose  in  the  night  to  per- 
form pious  exercises,  and,  as  Mirecom^t  says,  "he 
seemed  to  be  on  the  direct  road  to  heaven."  All 
this,  however,  was  to  be  changed,  in  accordance 
with  the  nature  of  his  whole  life.  Having  ad- 
vanced to  the  class  in  philosophy,  in  the  College 
Charlemagne,  he  not  only  devoured  the  works  of 
the  encyclopaedists,  but  embraced  with  enthusi- 
asm the  atheistical  principles  preached  and  fos- 
tered by  Baron   d'Holbach.      In  his  first  book, 


112  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

"  Joseph  Delorme,"  Sainte-Beuve  asserts,  however, 
that,  in  spite  of  the  new  theories  which  he  had  im- 
bibed, he  had  not  ceased  to  venerate  the  true  and 
the  good.  Prompted  by  a  curious  feeling  of  mys- 
ticism and  a  desire  to  benefit  his  fellow  men,  he 
resolved  to  study  medicine.  Anatomy  and  physi- 
ology possessed  for  him  a  peculiar  fascination. 
He  strove  at  the  dissecting-table  to  surprise  the 
secret  affinity  of  soul  and  body.  His  inquisitive 
mind  was  ever  busy  with  the  unknown  limit  which 
separates  the  visible  from  the  invisible  world. 
From  his  medical  studies  he  formed  his  peculiar 
method  of  literary  criticism.  From  that  source 
undoubtedly  arose  his  system  of  studying  with 
the  deepest  care  the  influence  of  external  phenom- 
ena upon  the  human  mind,  and  of  measuring  a 
literary  performance  by  the  physical  constitution 
and  surroundings  of  its  author.  He  dissected 
books  as  he  dissected  bodies.  He  defined  criti- 
cism, in  fact,  to  be  a  veritable  course  of  moral 
physiology.  The  passion  for  anatomizing  books 
soon  overcame  his  humanitarian  purposes,  and  he 
abandoned  the  scalpel  for  the  stylus.  One  day  M. 
Dubois,  Sainte-Beuve's  old  teacher  in  rhetoric,  and 
afterward  editor  of  the  "Globe,"  found  himself 
confronted  by  his  young  student  of  eighteen,  who 
offered  for  his  inspection  a  manuscript  so  marked 
by  ability  that  the  old  gentleman  had  it  imme- 
diately sent  to  press.  The  next  day  the  article 
was  greatly  praised  by  the  readers  of  the  "  Globe," 


SAINTE-BEUVE.  113 

and  Sainte-Beuve  was  directly  attached  to  the  staff 
of  that  journal,  which  included  such  celebrities 
as  Jouffroy,  Remusat,  Yitet,  Ampere,  Merimee, 
Guizot,  Cousin,  and  Villemain.  His  literary  re- 
views soon  began  to  command  considerable  at- 
tention. 

The  great  war  between  the  classicists  and  ro- 
manticists was  about  to  break  out.  Some  anxiety 
was  manifested  as  to  which  cause  Sainte-Beuve 
would  espouse,  and  either  side  contended  for  his 
service  under  its  peculiar  flag.  He  soon  decided 
all  doubts  by  a  sharp  attack  upon  Victor  Hugo, 
whereupon  the  romanticists,  by  a  skillful  manoeu- 
vre, which  consisted  in  flattering  his  vanity  as  a 
poet,  attached  him  in  triumph  to  their  own  stan- 
dard. He  became  the  intimate  friend  of  De  Vig- 
ny,  Lamartine,  fimile  and  Antony  Deschamps,  and 
the  daily  guest  of  Victor  Hugo.  Whenever,  at  the 
literary  meetings  of  the  romanticists,  which  took 
place  at  Hugo's  house,  Sainte-Beuve  was  requested 
to  recite  some  of  his  poetry,  he  would,  out  of  mod- 
esty, "  declare  that  he  was  about  to  execute  him- 
self," and  would  request  the  young  sons  of  the  host 
to  make  as  much  noise  as  possible  for  the  purpose 
of  drowning  his  voice.  He  was,  indeed,  unassum- 
ing. His  first  book  was  a  volume  of  poems  pur- 
porting to  have  been  written  by  one  Joseph  De- 
lorme,  and  only  edited  by  Sainte-Beuve.  In  his 
preface  the  latter  gave  a  biography  of  the  fictitious 
Delorme,  announcing  his  recent  death  from  a  pul- 


114  FRENCH   MEN   OF   LETTERS. 

monary  ailment ;  a  proceeding  which  not  long  since 
was  paralleled  by  the  Italian  poet  Stecchetti* 
This  preface  is  rather  superior  as  a  literary  per- 
formance to  the  poems,  some  of  which  are,  how- 
ever, marked  by  a  delicious  frankness  and  simpli- 
city. They  were,  in  many  cases,  clever  imitations 
of  Wordsworth  and  Cowper,  and  sometimes  direct 
translations  from  those  poets.  "  Le  Calme,"  "  Oh ! 
Laissez-vous  Aimer, "  and  "  Mes  Reves "  are 
pieces  of  verse  which  sufficiently  justify  the  suc- 
cess of  "  Joseph  Delorme."  This  first  collection 
was  certainly  superior  to  the  "Rayons  Jaunes" 
which  followed,  and  brought  upon  their  author 
such  a  shower  of  sarcasms  and  epigrams  as  for  a 
time  cured  him  of  his  weakness  for  versifying. 
The  poet  was  so  stung  by  their  reception  that  he 
actually  became  jaundiced,  a  most  amusing  fact 
if  we  consider  the  title  of  his  unfortunate  book. 
A  certain  infringement  upon  the  domestic  code, 
perpetrated  by  Sainte-Beuve  in  the  bosom  of 
Hugo's  family  some  time  later,  for  ever  closed 
against  him  the  doors  of  the  poet's  house — an 
event  which  aroused  the  critic's  spite,  and  speed- 
ily brought  about  his  alienation  from  the  ranks  of 
the  romanticists. 

To  describe  Sainte-Beuve  as  capable  of  deep, 
powerful  feelings  would  be  to  idealize  him  beyond 
the  bounds  of  truth.  He  gave  to  women,  and  to 
the  transient  sentiments  by  them  prompted,  a  large 
share  of  his  life.     His  heart  was  a  sanctuary  open 


SAINTE-BEUVE.  115 

to  all,  and  the  publicans  and  sinners  did  not  halt 
at  the  vestibule.  He  was  of  a  loving  disposition; 
but  his  ugliness — a  species  of  ugliness,  too,  which 
especially  repels  women — prevented  his  reaping  in 
due  form  the  reciprocation  so  necessary  to  almost 
all  hearts.  He  was  small  and  wizen-faced.  His 
head  was  pyramidal,  like  that  of  Thersites,  the  fa- 
mous ugly  man  of  Homer.  His  brow  was  broad 
and  receding.  His  eyes  were  blue,  globular,  and 
round  as  those  of  an  ox.  His  cheek-bones  were 
prominent  as  those  of  an  Indian,  and  his  cheeks  dis- 
played two  small  spots  that  looked  like  abrasions. 
It  is  impossible  to  conceive  how  a  man  so  ill-fa- 
vored could  dream  continually  of  female  conquests. 
He  had,  indeed,  few  successes,  and  railed  against 
the  more  prosperous  amorous  enterprises  of  his  fel- 
lows. "  Women,"  he  used  bitterly  to  say,  "  have 
always  offered  me  their  friendship."  His  attitude 
toward  the  fair  sex  was  a  perpetual  conflict  be- 
tween the  aspirations  of  the  soul  and  those  of  the 
senses.  His  refined  and  subtile  mind  inclined 
toward  feelings  of  the  highest  order;  but  his  tem- 
perament was  weighted  down  as  if  by  a  ton  of  Hol- 
land cheese.  Mme.  D'Arbouville  was  perhaps  the 
only  woman  who  ever  loved  him  ;  and  it  must  be 
said  that,  having  found  a  congenial  and  apprecia- 
tive soul,  Sainte-Beuve  showed  himself  endued 
with  emotions  as  truly  noble  as  any  that  inspired 
the  delicate  Leopardi. 

On  approaching  his  fortieth  year,  Sainte-Beuve, 


116  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

who  had  several  times  seriously  contemplated  mar- 
riage, decided  to  remain  a  bachelor.  He  thought 
then  of  linking  his  life  with  some  distinguished 
and  intellectual  woman,  who  might  be  for  him 
what  Mile.  Lespinasse  had  been  for  D'Alembert. 
He,  however,  failed.  M.  Pons,  who  has  recently 
published,  under  the  title  of  "  Sainte-Beuve  et  Ses 
Inconnues,"  a  rather  indiscreet  book  on  the  cele- 
brated critic's  love  affairs,  says,  concerning  the  wo- 
man upon  whom  Sainte-Beuve  finally  set  his  choice: 
"She  was  a  brunette,  about  thirty-five  years  of 
age,  who  wished  to  be  called  Mme.  de  Yaquez, 
and  said  that  she  was  born  in  Spain.  What  was 
her  real  name  ?  Whence  did  she  come  ?  Sainte- 
Beuve,  when  questioned  on  these  points,  answered 
evasively,  and  confined  himself  to  praising  the  good 
qualities  of  his  conquest.  Elegant  stature,  mag- 
nificent black  hair,  pale  complexion — such  were 
the  charms  which  had  seduced  the  author  of  the 
^  Rayons  Jaunes.'  He  installed  her  as  mistress  of 
his  house.  Perhaps,  notwithstanding  his  decision 
against  marriage,  he  would  have  consented  to 
have  the  relation  legalized  by  the  mayor,  had  the 
lady,  who  was  originally  from  a  village  of  Picar- 
dy,  not  feared  the  revelations  which  her  birth 
certificate  would  have  disclosed.  She  did  not, 
however,  fail  to  assume  the  authority  of  a  despot 
in  the  household.  She  removed  the  initial  of 
Sainte-Beuve  from  all  his  silver-plate  and  lingerie^ 
and  substituted  her  own.      She  ruled  the  critic 


SAINTE-BEUVE.  117 

with  a  rod  of  iron,  keeping  away  from  him  by 
her  rough  demeanor  all  his  old  friends  and  clients. 
How  far  she  might  have  gone  with  her  tyranny  it 
is  difficult  to  foresee.  Death  put  a  stop  to  her 
ambition. 

"  In  the  course  of  her  malady,  an  old  peasant 
asked  to  see  her,  styling  himself  her  father.  In 
the  first  impulse  of  shame,  she  refused  to  recog- 
nize him,  and  only  yielded  to  the  entreaties  of 
Sainte-Beuve,  who  was  curious  to  learn  all  about 
her  origin.  The  source  was  pure,  but  very  hum- 
ble. Thomas  Devaquez,  without  much  urging, 
said  that  he  was  a  journeyman  from  the  village 
of  Montauban,  and  the  father  of  a  numerous  fam- 
ily. He  had  not  every  day  bread  enough  to  sup- 
ply them.  Thomas,  vexed  at  seeing  the  future  of 
his  daughter  uncertain,  had  dispatched  her  to 
Paris,  where,  it  was  said,  she  could  not  fail  to 
make  a  fortune.  Thank  Heaven,  she  had  met  with 
a  good  protector.  Monsieur  Sainte-Beuve  ;  but 
that  was  no  reason  for  disowning  her  parentage. 
Sainte-Beuve  pacified  the  old  man  with  presents, 
and  promised  to  assist  him.  This  was  just  what 
Thomas  wanted,  and  he  went  away  satisfied.  As 
soon  as  the  daughter  had  passed  away,  he  rushed 
to  claim  a  part  of  her  inheritance — her  carpets, 
furniture,  etc. — under  the  plea  that  she  had  placed 
her  personal  property  in  common  with  that  of 
Sainte-Beuve.  By  threatening  the  latter  with  a 
lawsuit,  which  he  knew  would  bring  many  inter- 


118  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

esting  disclosures  before  the  public  gaze,  the 
peasant  extorted  from  him  the  sum  of  twelve 
thousand  francs,  by  no  means  a  small  portion  of 
the  slender  purse  of  Sainte-Beuve." 

Simultaneously  with  joining  the  staff  of  the 
"  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes,"  during  the  editorship 
of  Buloz,  Sainte-Beuve  commenced  publishing 
his  famous  "Critiques  and  Literary  Portraits." 
These  were  endless  and  elaborate  studies  of  the 
poets  and  prose  writers  of  the  seventeenth,  eigh- 
teenth, and  nineteenth  centuries.  His  new  meth- 
od of  criticism  is  displayed  to  full  advantage  in 
the  eight  huge  volumes  of  this  series.  He  finds 
out  how  a  writer  comported  himself  in  this  or 
that  circumstance,  no  matter  how  trivial.  Hav- 
ing found  this  fact,  he  proceeds  to  construct  from 
it  his  whole  web  of  arguments.  He  judges  the 
work  of  an  author  from  the  manner,  for  example, 
in  which  the  latter  dressed,  or  his  mode  of  eating 
soup.  Despite  the  occasional  absurdity  of  thus 
arriving  at  conclusions,  these  reviews  form  an 
interesting  work.  The  author  gives  his  own  im- 
pressions, and  does  not  browse  upon  the  labors  of 
others.  He  frequently  took  back  his  manuscripts 
from  the  printer  rather  than  submit  to  the 
changes  which  M.  Buloz  exacted.  His  criticisms 
were  not  always  impartial.  One  day  he  brought 
to  the  "  Revue "  the  "  portrait  "  of  Janin.  Bu- 
loz, who  had  quarreled  with  Janin,  then  the  feuil- 
letonist of  the  "  Debats,"  desired  a  most   tren- 


SAINTE-BEUYE.  119 

chant  criticism.  Finding  the  article  full  of  marked 
deference,  he  grew  angry. 

"  Ah  !  "  he  cried,  "  this  is  not  what  I  want. 
Janin  merits  something  sharper  than  this." 

"I  agree  with  you,"  replied  Sainte-Beuve, 
"  but  it  is  so  much  to  my  interest  to  remain  on 
good  terms  with  him  that  I  shall  not  change  a 
word." 

When  Sainte-Beuve  had  attained  the  height  of 
his  reputation  as  a  critic,  and,  in  a  great  measure 
as  an  elegant  writer,  some  publisher  insisted  upon 
his  writing  a  novel.  The  author  of  "  Joseph  De- 
lorme  "  could  not  resist  the  temptation  of  drawing 
upon  his  imagination,  and  accepted  the  offer.  The 
publisher  immediately  asked  Sainte-Beuve  for  a 
suitable  title.  "I  don't  know  of  any,"  said  the 
latter,  indifferently  ;  "  choose  any  you  please.  I 
shall  always  be  able  to  accommodate  myself  to 
your  suggestion."  "  Volupte  "  was  in  consequence 
announced  for  speedy  publication  ;  but  over  two 
years  elapsed  before  the  publisher  received  any 
copy.  Owing  to  the  delay,  public  expectation 
had  reached  an  extreme  pitch,  and,  dying  away, 
caused  Sainte-Beuve's  novel  to  be  treated  as  a 
synonyme  for  the  Greek  Calends — something  that 
would  never  come.  "  Yolupte,"  however,  finally 
appeared  in  1834.  It  proved  a  tame  production 
when  compared  to  the  fictions  with  which  Hugo, 
Chateaubriand,  Balzac,  Dumas,  Gerard  de  Nerval, 
Gautier,  De  Musset,  George  Sand,  and  many  oth- 


120  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

ers  had  familiarized  the  public.  It  possessed  no 
striking  plot,  no  dramatic  movement,  no  well- 
planned  development,  and  was  written  in  a  style 
from  which  it  was  impossible  to  disentangle  ideas, 
though  here  and  there  interspersed  with  some  fine 
thoughts  and  descriptions.  The  hero  is  Sainte- 
Beuve  himself,  under  the  name  of  Amaury,  who 
is  represented  as  in  love  with  a  marquise.  The 
book  is  a  medley  of  sensuality  and  romanticism, 
of  sensibility  and  selfishness,  of  vulgar  sins  and 
mystic  remorses — such,  indeed,  as  well  portrayed 
the  author's  state  of  mind.  Sainte-Beuve  was 
clearly  no  greater  as  a  novelist  than  as  a  poet, 
and  had  good  reason  to  regret  his  having  ventured 
into  the  domain  of  fiction.  His  intellect  was  ana- 
lytic, not  synthetic.  The  only  positive  advantages 
he  derived  from  the  publication  of  "Yolupte" 
were  the  friendship  of  Mme.  d'Arbouville  and  the 
patronage  of  the  Count  de  Mole. 

Under  the  guidance  of  the  powerful  mind  of 
Armand  Carrel,  then  editor  of  the  liberal  journal 
"  Le  National,"  Sainte-Beuve  next  tried  his  lance 
in  the  arena  of  republicanism,  and  to  such  pur- 
pose that  he  found  himself  speedily  embroiled  in 
a  duel  with  £mile  de  Girardin,  in  which  he  came 
out  second  best.  That  which  Sainte-Beuve  pro- 
duced during  this  "  new  departure "  is  perhaps 
his  best  work.  The  broad  ideas  of  Carrel  had 
seemingly  expanded  his  own,  and  a  more  liberal 
spirit  and  a  higher  conception  of  the  critic's  mis- 


SAINTE-BEUVE.  121 

sion  now  began  to  pervade  his  writings.  But  La- 
mennais  dragged  him  down  to  the  level  of  reli- 
gious discussion,  and  again  Sainte-Beuve  lost  his 
bearings.  Timid  as  ever,  he  was  seemingly  awed 
by  the  consequences  of  the  principles  which  he 
had  espoused,  and  he  dared  not  go  to  the  end. 
He  deserted  the  flag  of  republicanism,  and  threw 
himself  into  the  arms  of  reaction. 

On  his  admission  to  the  salon  of  the  Count  de 
M0I6,  Sainte-Beuve  entered  upon  a  period  which 
he  could  style  one  of  aristocratic  tendencies.  The 
inclination  of  his  mind  may  have  been  toward  the 
philosophy  of  Lamennais,  or  again  toward  that  of 
Jansenius,  but  his  heart  was  ever  with  counts  and 
princes.  He  regarded  as  below  himself  any  unti- 
tled person  until  the  Revolution  of  1848  sudden- 
ly awoke  him  from  his  aristocratic  dreams.  He 
had,  it  is  true,  refused  the  Cross  of  the  Legion  of 
Honor  (1837),  but  from  its  having  been  offered 
in  terms  not  sufficiently  flattering  rather  than  out 
of  genuine  modesty.  He  was  nothing  loath, 
however,  to  accept  (1840)  the  position  of  libra- 
rian in  the  Mazarin  Library  ;  an  appointment 
which  was  received  in  good  time  to  repair  his 
dwindled  finances.  Mirecourt  exclaims  that  M. 
de  Remusat,  then  Minister  of  the  Interior,  intend- 
ed to  pay  by  this  appointment  a  debt  of  gratitude 
long  due  to  Sainte-Beuve.  It  is  known  that  the 
Minister  was  an  indefatigable  and  pretentious  ver- 
sifier, though  he  did  not   publish  his   poems — a 


122  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

most  commendable  example ;  and  Sainte-Beuve 
conceived  the  happy  idea  of  calling  his  friend  the 
"unedited  Remusat" — whence  his  nomination. 
However  unsympathetic  the  personality  of  the 
critic  may  be,  one  can  not  but  accept  cutu  grano 
salts  this  statement  from  his  brilliant  but  often- 
times questionable  biographer.  The  choice  of 
Remusat  could  not  have  been  more  wisely  direct- 
ed. No  one  was  better  qualified  than  Sainte-Beuve 
to  fill  the  position  ;  no  one  possessed  more  erudi- 
tion ;  his  "  Critiques  and  Portraits  "  would  alone 
have  established  his  preeminent  capacity  to  guard 
the  treasures  of  the  Mazarin. 

Having,  in  1837,  offered  to  the  public  his  last 
and  his  worst  volume  of  poems,  "  Pensees  d'Aoilt," 
Sainte-Beuve  was  invited  to  Lausanne  to  deliver 
a  course  of  historical  lectures.  He  treated  of  the 
dispute  between  Port  Royal  and  Sorbonne,  be- 
tween the  Jansenists  and  the  Church  of  Rome. 
The  tableau  was  surely  worthy  of  his  brush.  The 
course  of  lectures  was  afterward  published  in  three 
volumes  under  the  title  "Port  Royal."  The  work 
is  perhaps  too  analytic,  and  the  historical  princi- 
ples deduced  are  not  unfrequently  lame  and  incor- 
rect ;  but  the  erudition  displayed  is  simply  vast, 
the  composition  worthy  of  a  great  historian. 
There  are  in  this  book  pages — particularly  those 
in  which  he  points  out  how  from  the  mists  of 
the  Jansenistic  theories  arose  the  new  gospels  of 
Mirabeau,  Bernardin  de  Saint-Pierre,  Royer-Col- 


SAINTE-BEUVE.  123 

lard,  etc. — which  must  be  declared  wonderfully 
eloquent.  Unfavorable  to  Catholics,  "  Port  Roy- 
al "  had  a  contested  success,  and  drew  upon  its 
author  not  a  few  satires.  Many  of  his  historical 
views  were  ridiculed  as  burlesques.  The  Duchess 
d'Abrant^s  henceforth  called  him  "  Sainte-Bevue," 
a  clever  nickname,  which  long  persecuted  the  hap- 
less chronicler.  It  was  painted  in  huge  letters  upon 
walls  in  many  a  street  of  Paris  by  the  students  of 
the  Quartier  Latin,  who  in  this  way  were  pleased 
to  signify  their  contempt  for  him  who  had  writ- 
ten three  large  volumes  against  their  ancestral  seat 
of  learning. 

In  1844  he  presented  himself  as  a  candidate  at 
the  Academy.  As  is  the  custom,  Sainte-Beuve  had 
to  pay  a  visit  to  every  member,  and  solicit  the 
honor  of  his  support.  He  was  obliged  accordingly 
to  call  upon  Victor  Hugo.  The  great  poet,  who 
bad  so  much  reason  to  revenge  himself  upon  the 
critic,  did  so  in  a  manner  entirely  worthy  of  his 
genius.  He  spared  Sainte-Beuve  the  humiliation 
of  asking  a  favor,  and  not  only  gave  his  own  vote, 
but  secured  those  of  fifteen  others.  And  it  was 
Victor  Hugo  who,  a  year  later,  received  him  at 
the  Academy  with  a  noble  speech,  in  which  all 
personal  animosity  was  completely  forgotten. 
Sainte-Beuve  met  with  small  sympathy  among  the 
Academicians.  He  used  to  say  that  in  their  whole 
number  he  possessed  but  three  friends  :  "  Ampere, 
Merimee,  and  that  poor  old  imbecile,  Monsieur  X." 


124  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

He  next  published  his  "  Causeries  du  Lundi." 
These  were  simple  variations  of  the  "  Critiques  and 
Portraits."  Eugene  Pelletan  said  with  much  wit 
that  Sainte-Beuve,  having  in  the  latter  work 
vainly  sought  for  a  needle  in  a  thousand  bales  of 
hay,  had  in  the  former  renewed  his  search  with 
equal  success.  The  "  Causeries  "  were  printed 
mostly  in  the  "  Constitutionnel,"  some  of  them  in 
the  "  Moniteur."  So  heavy  was  his  prose  that  a 
wit  who  used  to  read  the  former  journal  said, 
"  His  article  makes  me  find  the  rest  of  the  paper 
most  amusing." 

He  was  about  this  time  deputed  to  report  upon 
the  distribution  of  dramatic  prizes,  d  projyos  of 
which  the  following  anecdote  is  related  by  Mire- 
court.  Mme.  de  Girardin  had  given  "  La  Joie  fait 
Peur"  at  the  Theatre  Richelieu.  Sainte-Beuve 
shortly  paid  her  a  visit. 

"In  truth,  madame,"  said  he,  in  an  insin- 
uating tone,  "the  commission  of  which  I  am 
the  reporter  is  not  satisfied  :  we  expect  your 
play." 

"  Indeed  ?  "  replied  Delphine. 

"  Yes,  madame,  the  prize  was  decreed  to  you 
in  advance." 

"  Pardon  me.  Monsieur  Sainte-Beuve,"  smiling- 
ly said  the  "  tenth  muse,"  "  you  will  excuse  my 
vanity,  as  I  am  a  woman.  Frankly,  I  think  I  am 
one  of  those  who  distribute  but  do  not  receive 
rewards." 


SAINTE-BEUVE.  125 

With  the  coup  d?itat  of  Napoleon  III.  honors 
began  to  shower  upon  Sainte-Beuve.  He  received 
the  cross,  which  he  previously  had  refused,  and 
was  elected  to  the  chair  of  poetry  in  the  College 
of  France,  in  the  place  of  M.  Tissaud,  deceased. 
The  students  of  the  institution  did  not,  however, 
sympathize  with  the  professor,  and  greeted  his 
first  lecture  with  an  uproar  of  hisses.  In  vain  did 
he  strive  to  subdue  the  tumult.  He  was  obliged 
to  abandon  the  chair  without  reading  a  page  of 
his  manuscript.  At  the  second  meeting  he  was  no 
better  received ;  but  the  presence  of  Ampere  and 
Octave  Delacroix,  and  the  sang-froid  of  the  pro- 
fessor, finally  succeeded  in  securing  for  him  a 
hearing.  Unfortunately,  he  mistook  one  leaf  of 
his  manuscript  for  another,  and  the  spell  was  bro- 
ken. A  noise  greater  than  that  of  the  first  day 
compelled  him  to  give  up  the  idea  of  lecturing. 

"  Gentlemen,"  he  thundered,  "  you  dishonor 
the  name  of  French  youth  !  " 

"  You  dishonor  French  literature  !  "  the  stu- 
dents thundered  back. 

"  I  shall  be  compelled  to  resign,"  stammered 
Sainte-Beuve. 

"  Yes  !  go,  go,  by  all  means  !  There  is  the 
door  !  "  was  the  response. 

Octave  Delacroix  protested  in  the  name  of  the 
better  element  in  the  University  against  this  con- 
duct, and  invited  such  as  did  not  care  to  listen  to 
retire.     Only  five  persons  remained  on  the  bench- 


126  FRENCH   MEN   OF  LETTERS. 

es  of  the  hall.     The  professor  stepped  from  his 
chair,  never  to  mount  it  again. 

One  of  the  most  beautiful  pages  in  the  life  of 
Sainte-Beuve  is  undoubtedly  his  defense  of  Renan 
in  the  Senate,  to  which  he  was  appointed  in  1865. 
Senator  Count  De  Segur  d'Aguesseau  was  treat- 
ing the  question  of  working  on  Sunday,  and  im- 
proved the  opportunity  to  censure  the  Govern- 
ment for  its  nomination  of  Renan  to  a  seat  in 
the  Senate.  Canrobert,  the  great  soldier,  spoke 
like  a  monk.  Every  one  was  against  the  great 
thinker.  Sainte-Beuve  alone  arose  to  defend  the 
cause  of  free  thought  before  the  whole  assem- 
bly pitted  against  him.  M.  Veuillot  challenged 
Sainte-Beuve  to  a  duel,  which  he  had  the  good 
sense  to  refuse.  A  general  cry  of  cowardice 
was  raised  against  him,  and  unjustly  so.  Sainte- 
Beuve  had  on  a  former  occasion  shown  that, 
though  by  no  means  a  professional  fire-eater,  he 
lacked  neither  courage  nor  sang-froid  on  the 
proper  occasion.  A  difficulty  having  arisen  be- 
tween himself  and  one  of  the  owners  of  the 
"  Globe,"  a  duel  became  inevitable.  On  the  ap- 
pointed day  rain  fell  in  torrents.  Sainte-Beuve 
made  his  appearance  with  an  umbrella  as  huge  and 
as  old  as  that  of  the  late  lamented  Horace  Gree- 
ley, and  a  pair  of  ancient  pistols  that  might  have 
done  honor  to  the  Museum  of  Cluny.  At  the  mo- 
ment of  firing,  they  urged  upon  him  the  necessity 
of  laying  aside  the  umbrella,  which  he  persisted 


SAINTE-BEUVE.  127 

in  holding  open  above  his  head.  All  entreaties 
were  of  no  avail.  Sainte-Beuve  settled  the  ques- 
tion by  angrily  exclaiming,  "I  am  willing  to  be 
killed,  but  I  don't  want  to  catch  cold  ! "  Four 
shots  were  exchanged,  happily  without  result,  and 
the  honor  of  the  principals  was  declared  to  be  sat- 
isfied. 

There  have  been  few  harder  or  more  conscien- 
tious workers  than  Sainte-Beuve.  He  was  the 
nightmare  of  compositors  and  proof-readers.  He 
would  have  a  man  hanged,  says  Mirecourt,  for 
the  omission  of  a  comma  or  the  misplacing  of  a 
period.  He  would  lean  for  hours  on  the  case  of  a 
compositor  to  follow  with  scrutiny  the  changes 
he  might  suggest,  and  would  spend  hours  in 
orthographical  discussions  with  his  proof-read- 
ers. As  soon  as  he  had  to  write  an  article,  the 
employees  of  the  Mazarin  Library  were  all  set 
in  motion.  They  were  compelled  to  disinter  all 
parchments  and  old  books,  to  go  through  every 
imaginable  catalogue  and  manuscript.  He  rare- 
ly, however,  did  his  assistants  the  honor  of  men- 
tioning their  names  for  all  the  work  they  had 
done  for  him.  Any  author  upon  whom  he  had 
once  written  he  considered  as  his  own  property. 
He  allotted  to  each  author  a  box  containing  his 
works,  letters  in  any  way  concerning  him — every 
species,  in  short,  of  information  respecting  him 
and  his  works.  Before  writing,  he  would  live  for 
a  fortnight  in  sole  communion  with  his  subject, 
9 


128  FREXCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

and  endeavor  thus  to  enter  into  his  habits,  pas- 
sions, and  prejudices.  After  fully  consulting  men 
and  books,  he  would  shut  his  door  upon  everybody, 
and  set  himself  to  work.  Finally,  in  one  single 
day,  he  would  produce  his  article  on  small,  square 
leaves  of  paper,  in  a  very  flowing  hand,  but  so 
delicate  and  close  that  his  copyist  was  scarcely 
able  to  read  it.  He  would  then  read  over  and 
most  carefully  correct  his  manuscript.  The  at- 
tention which  he  devoted  to  his  manuscripts 
verged  on  a  mania.  Always  ready  to  sacrifice 
syntax  to  effect  and  to  what  he  styled  iiaturalness, 
he  ever  strove  to  make  his  writings  as  supple  as 
his  speech. 

Among  the  persons  whom  he  most  frequently 
saw  during  the  last  years  of  his  life  was  the  Prin- 
cess Julia  Bonaparte,  who  devoted  much  of  her 
time  to  composing  short  stories,  being  ambitious 
for  the  fame  of  a  literary  woman.  Once,  being 
desirous  to  obtain  the  opinion  of  the  eminent  crit- 
ic, she  forwarded  to  him  a  heavy  portfolio  con- 
taining her  productions.  While  perusing  her 
manuscripts  he  found  a  loose  leaf  containing  a 
sketch  of  himself,  which  was  by  no  means  flatter- 
ing. "Old  monkey"  was  the  greatest  compli- 
ment paid  to  his  physique  ;  "  debauchee  "  that 
paid  to  his  morals.  The  rage  of  Sainte-Beuve 
may  more  easily  be  imagined  than  described.  He 
placed  his  portrait  in  an  envelope,  accompanied 
by  the  following  cutting  communication  :  "  Please 


GERARD   DE   NERVAL.  129 

accept,  Princess,  the  definitive  homage  of  a  re- 
spect which  a  debaiiche  old  monkey  is  pleased  to 
express.  —  Sainte-Beuve."  These  words  seem 
greatly  to  have  preyed  upon  his  mind.  He  sor- 
rowfully repeated  them  on  his  death-bed. 


GSEABD  DE  NERVAL. 

Gerard  de  Nerval  is  an  author  as  yet  almost 
unknown  in  this  country.  The  future,  however, 
will  assuredly  make  due  amends  for  this  contem- 
porary ignorance.  When  the  majority  of  the  now 
popular  French  authors  shall  have  passed  into  ob- 
livion, he  will  survive  among  the  purest  and  most 
elegant  writers  that  have  graced  the  annals  of 
French  literature. 

His  biography  has  been  so  inimitably  written 
by  Eugene  de  Mirecourt,  that,  in  following  the 
narrative  as  given  by  that  brilliant  biographer, 
we  feel  that  we  are  doing  the  reader  higher  ser- 
vice than  might  have  been  the  result  of  indepen- 
dent research.  The  real  name  of  this  writer  was 
Gerard  Labrunie.  He  was  born  on  the  21st  of 
May,  1808,  in  one  of  the  streets  adjoining  the 
Palais  Royal  of  Paris.  His  father  was  an  officer 
under  the  First  Empire,  who,  as  was  common 
with  the  soldiers  of  Napoleon,  took  his  wife  with 
him  during  his  campaigns.    Gerard  knew  little  of 


130  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

a  mother's  care.  He  was  taken  at  an  early  ago 
into  the  environs  of  Paris,  in  the  pleasant  wood- 
lands of  Ermenonville,  where  he  lived  in  the 
household  of  one  of  his  uncles.  At  the  close  of 
one  fine  day  in  April,  when  he  had  returned  from 
one  of  his  daily  romps  in  the  fields,  and  was  play- 
ing at  the  door  of  the  chateau,  he  perceived  ap- 
proaching him  a  man  of  bronzed  features,  who 
stopped  before  him,  threw  off  the  cloak  which  hid 
his  uniform,  and,  opening  his  arms,  simply  said  : 

"  Do  you  know  me  ?  " 

"Yes,"  unhesitatingly  replied  the  child;  "you 
are  my  papa." 

Gerard  was  only  eighteen  months  old  when  he 
had  last  seen  his  parents,  and  consequently  could 
not  have  recalled  more  than  a  vague  image  of  two 
people  he  had  seen  bending  over  his  cradle. 

"  And  my  mamma  ?  "  he  asked,  "  where  is  my 
mamma  ?  " 

Without  replying,  the  officer  strained  Gerard 
to  his  heart,  and  two  large  tears  rolled  slowly 
down  his  cheeks.  He  pointed  to  heaven.  Gerard 
understood,  and  wept.  The  mother  had  died  in 
Silesia. 

Condemned  to  repose  by  the  exile  of  Napo- 
leon at  St.  Helena,  the  officer  applied  himself  to 
the  education  of  his  son.  A  long  series  of  cam- 
paigns in  the  countries  that  lie  between  the  Dan- 
ube and  the  Rhine  had  familiarized  him  with  the 
German  tongue,  and  he  possessed  some  knowledge 


GERARD   DE   NERVAL.  131 

also  of  the  Oriental  languages.  Gerard,  in  less 
than  two  years  after  his  father's  return,  and  almost 
without  study,  had  become  an  accomplished  lin- 
guist. He  was  sent  at  a  suitable  age  to  the  Col- 
lege Charlemagne,  where  his  progress  was  such  as 
to  warrant  high  hopes  for  his  future. 

Gerard  passed  his  vacations  with  his  uncle. 
At  the  fetes  of  Ermenonville  he  invited  the  young 
peasant-girls  to  dance,  on  a  wide  green  lawn  bor- 
dered with  oaks  and  elms.  We  give  in  his  own 
language  the  account  of  an  authentic  incident, 
memorable  in  that  it  is  the  prelude  to  the  sinister 
drama  of  his  life. 

"  I  was,"  he  says,  "  the  only  boy  in  that  round, 
whither  I  had  brought  as  company  a  still  very 
young  girl,  Sylvia,  the  daughter  of  a  neighboring 
peasant.  I  loved  only  her  ;  to  that  day  she  had 
been  to  me  all  the  world. 

"Suddenly,  in  obedience  to  the  movement  of 
the  dance,  a  blonde  girl,  tall  and  beautiful,  who 
was  called  Adrienne,  found  herself  alone  with  me 
in  the  middle  of  the  circle.  They  told  us  to  em- 
brace ;  and  the  music  and  the  dance  continued 
more  gayly  than  ever. 

"In  giving  her  the  kiss  I  could  not  forbear 
pressing  her  hand.  Her  long,  thick,  golden  curls 
blew  about  my  cheeks.  At  that  moment  I  felt  a 
nameless  tremor  seize  me.  The  girl  was  obliged 
to  sing  before  being  permitted  to  reenter  the  cir- 
cle.    We  sat  down  around  her,  and  immediately, 


132  FRENCH  MEN   OF  LETTERS. 

in  a  fresh,  ringing  voice,  she  began  to  sing  one  of 
those  ancient  ballads  so  full  of  melancholy,  which 
told  of  the  woes  of  a  princess  imprisoned  by  the 
tyranny  of  her  father. 

"  The  shadows  of  evening  gathered  in  the  great 
trees  as  she  sang,  and  the  white  disk  of  the  moon 
rose  over  her  head  while  she  sat  isolated  in  the 
midst  of  our  attentive  circle. 

"  When  she  had  concluded,  no  one  dared  to 
speak.  I  rose  at  last,  and  ran  to  the  garden-plot 
of  the  chateau,  where  there  were  laurels  growing 
in  immense  vases  of  faience,  painted  in  camaieu. 
I  brought  back  two  branches  shaped  into  a  gar- 
land, and  placed  them  upon  the  head  of  that  sing- 
er, the  lustrous  leaves  making  in  the  pale  moon- 
light a  singular  contrast  against  her  refulgent  hair 
and  fair  temples.  She  resembled  the  Beatrice  of 
Dante  when  she  smiled  to  the  poet  wandering 
along  the  borders  of  Paradise. 

"  Adrienne  rose  to  her  feet  ;  bending  her  slen- 
der figure,  she  made  us  a  graceful  salute,  and  re- 
tired to  the  chateau. 

"  '  That,'  said  some  one,  *  is  one  of  the  youngest 
daughters  of  the  descendants  of  a  family  allied  to 
the  ancient  kings  of  France.  The  blood  of  Yalois 
runs  in  her  veins.  For  this  one  fete-day  she  has 
been  allowed  to  take  part  in  our  games.  To-mor- 
row she  will  return  to  the  convent  in  which  she 
is  a  boarder.' " 

Gerard  betook  himself  again  to  his  studies  at 


GERARD  DE  NERVAL.  133 

the  College  Charlemagne,  bearing  in  his  heart  the 
memory  of  her  whom  for  the  present  we  shall 
call  Adrienne.  At  his  desk  in  the  class  of  philos- 
ophy he  dreamed  of  her  sweet,  shining  face,  and 
mingled  the  reveries  of  a  lover  with  his  meta- 
physical disquisitions.  All  the  science  of  reason- 
ing focused  upon  Adrienne.  His  vacation  was 
approaching  ;  he  would  return  to  the  chateau,  and 
again  have  it  in  his  power  to  see  her. 

Adrienne,  alas  !  had  that  year  no  vacation. 
Gerard  learned  that  she  was  destined  to  a  religious 
life.     The  young  man  saw  his  hopes  on  the  wing. 

To  overcome  his  disappointment,  he  had  re- 
course to  his  books.  The  German  poets  then  com- 
prised the  scope  of  his  reading.  The  idea  oc- 
curred to  him  of  translating  the  drama  of  "  Faust," 
partly  in  verse,  partly  in  prose  ;  and  to  the  fulfill- 
ment of  his  partially  formed  design  the  world  owes 
to-day  the  best  French  translation  of  Goethe. 

One  evening,  near  the  middle  of  the  year  1827, 
Goethe,  while  dining  with  Eckermann,  read  from 
time  to  time  from  a  book  at  his  hand,  praising  the 
passages  the  while  with  unusual  warmth. 

"  What  are  you  reading  there,  maitre  ?  "  asked 
his  host. 

"  A  translation  of  my  *  Faust '  into  the  French 
language,  by  one  Gerard  de  Nerval." 

"  Oh  yes,  I  know,"  replied  Eckermann,  with  an 
easy  disdain — "  a  young  man  of  eighteen  years, 
It  must  smack  of  the  College," 


134  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

"  Eighteen  years  !  "  echoed  Goethe  ;  "  do  you 
tell  me  that  my  translator  is  only  eighteen  years 
of  age  ?  " 

"Exactly  eighteen;  I  have  undeniable  infor- 
mation.". 

"  Very  well ;  mark  what  I  say  :  This  transla- 
tion is  simply  a  prodigy.  Its  author  will  be  one 
of  the  greatest  writers  of  France.  I  no  longer 
like  *  Faust'  in  German.  This  French  transla- 
tion has  invested  my  original  words  with  a  new 
fire.     I  am  proud  to  find  such  an  interpreter." 

The  most  glowing  praise  falls  short  of  this 
anecdote.  None  of  his  acquaintances,  however, 
heard  from  Gerard's  own  lips  the  report  of 
Goethe's  words.  The  translator  of  "  Faust,"  and 
the  author  of  so  many  works  which  have  enriched 
whatever  is  wholesome  in  the  literature  of  his 
land,  did  not,  like  the  great  majority  of  the  writ- 
ers of  his  day,  blow  his  own  trumpet  and  attitudi- 
nize before  the  public.  Modest  and  retiring  in  his 
manners,  Gerard,  if  ever  man  did,  permitted  the 
individual  to  wither.  He  blushed  whenever  in 
his  presence  any  one  rendered  to  his  performances 
their  richly  deserved  eulogy. 

The  choice  things  of  every  literature  fell  to 
Gerard's  inheritance.  Everything  that  was  pure, 
beautiful,  and  good  was  appropriated  and  assimi- 
lated in  his  nature.  He  pinned  his  faith  to  no  po- 
litical creed,  shunning  a  life  from  which  only  dis- 
appointments are  gathered. 


GlfiRARD  DE  NERVAL.  135 

He  closely  identified  himself  with  the  band  of 
writers  who  were  arrayed  against  the  classical 
school,  and  became  the  esteemed  follower  of  Vic- 
tor Hugo.  He  profited  by  the  suspension  now 
and  then  of  hostilities  between  the  classicists  and 
the  romanticists  to  slip  in  an  occasional  piece  for 
the  theatre.  He  produced  "  Tartuf  e  chez  Moliere," 
a  charming  comedietta  in  three  acts,  and  subse- 
quently presented  at  the  Odeon  another  thorough- 
ly original  comedy,  "Le  Prince  des  Sots,"  which 
the  committee  received  with  acclamation.  This 
piece  was  in  verse.  Harel,  the  manager  of  the 
theatre,  had  a  profound  hatred  for  poetry.  He 
ridiculed  the  enthusiasm  of  the  society,  consigned 
the  "  Prince  des  Sots  "  to  a  pigeon-hole,  and  left 
it  there  so  long  that  Gerard,  the  mildest  and  least 
aggressive  of  men,  was  obliged  to  have  recourse 
to  a  warrant  in  order  to  save  his  play  from  an 
arbitrary  sequestration.  Seeing  a  prospective 
judgment  against  him,  Harel  approached  the  au- 
thor. 

"  Mafoi^  my  dear  sir,"  gaid  he,  "I  considered 
you  a  man  of  some  sense." 

"  Ah,"  said  Gerard,  "  do  you  change  your 
opinion  ?  " 

"  Yes,  if  you  persist  in  neglecting  your  own 
interests." 

"  I  understand  them  best,  I  think.  My  piece 
has  been  accepted  these  eighteen  months.  All 
the  courts  will  compel  you  to  represent  it." 


136  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

"  Good !  I  understand  your  reply.  Fool, 
double  fool  that  you  are  !  "  cried  the  director, 
clasping  his  hands  with  a  desperate  air.  "  If  I  rep- 
resent your  piece,  you  are  as  good  as  dead  !  " 

"  Diable  !  "  exclaimed  Gerard. 

"  I  would  not  give  a  sou  for  your  future." 

"No?     Why?" 

"Because  your  first  comedy  has  three  acts, 
while  your  second  comedy  has  two  acts  ;  because, 
instead  of  a  crescendo^  you  follow  a  degringolando 
movement — if  you  will  pardon  me  the  language. 
You  march  on  a  false  route,  moii  cher.  Should 
men  of  your  talents  offer  to  the  public  comedies 
in  two  acts  ?  Out  upon  it  !  Take  your  pen,  go 
to  work  ;  write  me  five  acts,  ^yq  long  acts,  with 
strong  situations.  Belong  to  your  century,  to 
your  school— 5'we  diable  !  " 

"  Humph  !  five  acts  !  "  stammered  Gerard. 
"  That  is  not  so  easy,  especially  for  one  who  knows 
nothing  about  constructing  a  plot." 

"  Come,  then  ;  here  is  a  splendid  subject  if 
you  want  one." 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  asked  Gerard,  falling  into  the 
trap. 

"Charles  YL,"  said  Harel.  "Make  me  this 
hour  a  Charles  YI.  Magnificent  epoch — old  Paris 
in  all  its  splendor — long  live  the  Burgundians  ! 
— down  with  the  Armagnacs  !  —  Tete-Dieu  ! — 
Sang-Dieu  ! — potence  et  mort ! — Damnation  ! — 
enfer — and  the  grand  figure  of  Isabeau  looming 


GERARD   DE  NERVAL.  137 

over  everything  and  everybody.  Well,  what  do 
you  think  of  it  ?  " 

"  I  think  it  will  be  magnificent." 

"  Very  good.  Set  yourself  to  work,  and  bring 
me  the  drama.  I  will  play  it  with  the  stars  of  my 
company." 

Gerard  went  forth,  and  hastened  to  issue  coun- 
ter-orders to  advocate  and  sheriff.  Harel  had 
carefully  reckoned.  He  foresaw  that  in  his  haste 
and  inexperience  the  youth  would  produce  some- 
thing impossible,  which  would  relieve  him  of 
the  engagement.  Gerard,  in  high  hopes,  planned 
his  work  upon  gigantic  proportions,  and  made 
nothing  short  of  a  huge  chapter  of  history,  in- 
troducing innumerable  characters  and  intrigues, 
and  not  omitting  the  slightest  authentic  details. 
This  monstrous  piece,  which  he  composed  in  the 
space  of  six  weeks,  might  perhaps  have  been  act- 
ed in  the  space  of  three  successive  evenings. 

Art  had  not  yet  arrived  at  such  a  pitch  of  prog- 
ress. Gerard  de  Nerval  avowed,  laughingly,  that 
he  had  produced  another  ship.«  la  Robinson,  which 
he  could  by  no  possibility  cause  to  float.  His  only 
subsequent  dramatic  productions  were  the  "Al- 
chimiste,"  the  "Chariot  d'Enfant,"  "L'Imagier  de 
Harlem,"  and  the  "Misanthropic  et  Repentir," 
which  were  represented  in  the  principal  theatres 
of  Paris.  "  In  the  midst  of  that  tangled  web  of 
dramatic  incidents  which  marks  our  theatre  of  to- 
day," says  he,  "  I  have  not  yet  found  mjfiat  lux.^^ 


138  FRENCH   MEN   OF   LETTERS. 

In  spite,  however,  of  his  ignorance  of  scenic  con- 
struction, his  plays  were  never  hissed,  nor  was  he 
dismayed  by  failure  or  criticism.  His  style  was 
faultless.  By  education  a  romanticist,  Gerard  de 
Nerval  is  classic  as  regards  purity. 

He  returned  to  his  favorite  work  of  translat- 
ing. In  the  beginning  of  the  year  1830  he  pub- 
lished a  collection  of  translations  from  German 
poetry,  and  an  edition  of  the  works  of  Ron  sard. 
About  the  same  time  the  "  Cabinet  de  Lecture  " 
printed  over  his  signature  a  comic  story  of  the 
most  novel  and  startling  nature,  entitled  "La 
Main  de  Gloire." 

During  the  following  four  years  of  his  life 
Gerard  displayed  a  prodigious  activity  with  the 
pen.  Those  who  knew  him  at  this  epoch  under- 
stood how  necessary  some  distraction  was  to  him 
from  the  work  of  composing.  In  his  moments  of 
rest  the  most  somber  reflections  took  possession  of 
his  mind.  There  was  still  always  before  his  eyes 
the  sweet  young  girl,  so  graceful,  so  slender — the 
fair  singer  of  the  park  at  Ermenonville,  now  hid- 
den away  in  the  weary  solitudes  of  a  cloister. 

One  evening,  while  seated  in  the  Theatre  Co- 
mique,  and  as  the  young  man  was  indifferently  sur- 
veying the  mise-en-schie,  he  saw  that  which  caused 
his  whole  frame  to  thrill.     On  the  stage,  directly  j 
fronting  him,  stood  an  actress.     Her  figure,  her  | 
height,  her  long  golden  hair,  her  mien,  her  whole  I 
person,  proclaimed  Adrienne.     She  sang.     It  was 


Gl^RARD   DE  NERVAL.  139 

the  voice  of  tlie  young  girl  heard  long  ago  in  the 
pleasaunce  of  Ermenonville. 

"  No  !  no  !  "  said  Gerard  to  himself  ;  "  I  am 
the  plaything  of  a  dream." 

He  hurried  from  the  theatre,  his  brain  on  fire, 
and  his  imagination  in  a  delirum.  At  the  end  of 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  he  returned,  to  experience 
the  same  sensations.  He  profited  by  the  entre- 
acte,  made  his  way  to  the  green-room,  and  found 
the  cause  of  his  trouble  surrounded  by  a  host  of 
admirers.  Gerard  tremblingly  approached  her. 
The  more  he  regarded  her,  the  more  was  he  im- 
pressed with  the  miraculous  resemblance.  It  was 
Adrienne — she  only  !  Seeing  her  smile  at  the  ca- 
joleries and  insipid  compliments  which  were  ad- 
dressed to  her,  he  felt  a  cold  perspiration  start 
from  his  temples,  and  he  hurried  away  without 
addressing  a  word  to  her.  On  the  morrow  he  be- 
gan to  doubt  anew.  Adrienne  at  the  theatre? 
what  an  idea  !  A  daughter  of  Valois,  a  child  of 
royal  blood,  bred  in  the  shadow  of  a  sanctuary — 
was  such  to  pass  to  the  green-room  ? 

"  By  Heaven  !  "  he  cried  at  last,  "I  will  free 
my  heart  from  this  thralldom." 

He  hastily  jumped  into  a  cab,  and  three  hours 
later  found  himself  at  Ermenonville.  He  fruit- 
lessly questioned  everybody.  Finally  Sylvia,  that 
same  young  girl  whom  he  had  as  if  but  yesterday 
conducted  to  the  ball  at  the  chateau,  in  answer  to 
his  reiterated  inquiries,  cried,  in  an  annoyed  tone  : 


140  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

"  Oh,  you  are  in  a  terrible  way  over  your  nov- 
ice !     Well,  she  has  turned  out  badly." 

From  various  reports  it  was  evident  that  his 
heroine  had  saved  herself  from  a  convent  life  ; 
that  she  had  broken  with  her  family  and  with 
prejudice  ;  that,  in  fine,  the  charming  singer  of 
the  park  and  the  brilliant  diva  of  the  Op6ra  Co- 
mique  were  one  and  the  same  person.  He  reen- 
tered the  cab,  and  at  eight  o'clock  found  himself 
as  usual  in  an  orchestra-chair  at  the  Op6ra.  He 
made  up  his  mind  to  enter  the  waiting-room  and 
speak  to  her.  But,  when  he  again  beheld  the 
beautiful  singer  among  the  same  circle  of  admi- 
rers, he  felt  his  soul  grow  weak  and  tears  gath- 
ering in  his  eyes.  He  quitted  the  theatre,  no  fur- 
ther advanced  than  before.  On  the  morrow  he 
knocked  at  the  door  of  Alexandre  Dumas. 

"  Will  you,"  he  asked,  somewhat  abruptly, 
"  write  in  company  with  me  a  comic  opera  ?  " 

"A  comic  opera?  I  should  prefer  a  drama," 
answered  the  author  of  "  Henry  III." 

"  No ;  it  is  a  comic  opera  and  nothing  else 
that  we  must  compose.  Here  are  the  title  and 
the  plot.     I  wrote  the  latter  last  night." 

"I  will  see,"  said  Dumas,  taking  the  manu- 
script. Then,  after  glancing  over  the  pages,  he  ex- 
claimed, " '  The  Queen  of  Sheba  ! '  Peste  !  but  that 
is  a  good  title.  Agreed  !  I  dine  to-day  with  Meyer- 
beer, and  will  engage  him  to  write  the  music." 

As  he  left  Dumas,  the  young  man  congratu- 


GERARD   DE    NERVAL.  141 

lated  himself.  ^  Here,"  he  soliloquized,  "  is  my  dif- 
ficulty at  an  end.  Nothing  could  be  more  simple. 
I  can't  help  speaking  to  her  at  the  rehearsals." 

A  week  afterward  the  libretto  was  in  the  hands 
of  Meyerbeer.  While  waiting  for  the  music, 
Gerard  passed  his  evenings  at  the  Opera  Comique, 
contemplating  Adrienne.  He  thus  speaks  of  her 
in  the  "Filles  du  Feu":  "Beautiful  as  the  day 
when  the  footlights  shone  full  upon  her,  pale  as  the 
night  when  they  were  lowered  and  the  light  of  the 
chandelier  alone  fell  upon  her,  shining  with  her 
own  beauty  in  the  shadow,  like  the  divine  figure 
of  the  houris  which  stand  forth  with  stars  in  their 
foreheads  from  the  brown  background  of  the  fres- 
coes of  Herculaneum." 

"  While  investing  this  story  with  a  strongly 
romantic  character,"  says  Mirecourt,  "  we  do  but 
truthfully  relate  the  life  of  De  Nerval.  We  add 
nothing  to  the  portrait  of  that  tender,  melancholy, 
and  reflective  soul.  It  is  impossible  to  write  his 
life  without  dealing  with  the  love  which  traversed 
it  from  beginning  to  end." 

But  why,  one  will  ask,  did  he  not  speak  to 
Adrienne  ?  An  actress,  remarks  De  Mirecourt  with 
true  Gallic  flavor,  is  always  accessible.  Yes,  with- 
out doubt ;  and  that  precisely  was  the  secret  of  the 
poet.  Reality  frightened  him.  He  sought  un- 
ceasingly for  a  pretext  to  remain  in  the  domain  of 
illusion,  and  that  instinctively,  without  accounting 
for  his  course,  with  a  naive  frankness,  thinking 


142  FRENCH  MEN   OF  LETTERS. 

himself  unhappy  on  account  of  chimerical  obsta- 
cles. He  thought  that  a  unique  means  of  ap- 
proaching her  would  be  to  offer  her  a  role  in  a 
drama  of  his  composition. 

Unhappily,  at  the  moment  when  he  believed 
success  was  at  hand,  the  illustrious  Meyerbeer 
quaiTeled  with  Dumas,  and  returned  the  libretto. 

Made  desperate  by  this  contretemps,  the  poet 
wrote  a  long  letter  full  of  passion  to  the  actress, 
and  sent  it  by  one  of  the  attendants  of  the  theatre 
in  the  heart  of  a  bouquet.  Then,  taking  a  post- 
chaise,  he  did  not  stop  till  he  reached  Naples.  He 
had  taken  from  Dumas  the  manuscript  of  the 
"  Reine  de  Saba,"  and,  in  order  to  lose  nothing  of 
his  work,  he  converted  the  drama  into  one  of  the 
exquisite  tales  in  his  collection  called  the  "  Nights 
of  Rhamazan." 

To  flee  from  a  painful  preoccupation,  to  save 
himseK  by  a  post-chaise  from  an  unhappy  love, 
was  a  good  way  of  ministering  to  a  mind  diseased. 
He  did  not,  however,  succeed.  At  Marseilles  he 
met  a  young  English  lady,  who  displayed  a  marked 
partiality  for  him.  Had  he  not  loved  Adrienne, 
our  poet  would  now  be  living,  and  the  son-in-law 
of  an  English  baronet  of  untold  wealth. 

From  Genoa  and  Civita  Yecchia  he  wrote  two 
brilliant  letters  to  his  actress.  He  arrived  at 
Naples  without  money,  and  could  hardly  secure 
a  fourth-class  berth  in  the  steamboat  in  which  he 
returned  to  France  to  seek  a  response  to  his  letters. 


GERARD   DE  NERVAL.  143 

At  Paris  he  accepted  the  editorship  of  the 
"  Presse,"  a  theatrical  journal,  in  which  his  labors 
were  shared  by  Th6ophile  Gautier,  his  old  com- 
panion on  the  "  Mercure,"  and  afterward  his  bosom 
friend.  We  may  be  sure  that  he  now  published 
the  praises  of  his  bieii-aimee  like  a  true  lover. 

Those  who  knew  him  at  this  time  relate  fan- 
tastic stories  about  him.  At  his  majority  he  had 
come  into  possession  of  his  mother's  fortune.  In 
two  or  three  years  he  had  squandered  this  patri- 
mony, not  as  young  scions  ordinarily  do,  in  orgies 
and  debauches,  but  upon  objects  of  art,  paintings, 
old  porcelains,  and  every  species  of  curiosity  that 
the  bric-^-brac  dealers  could  exchange  for  his 
gold.  He  neglected  the  commonest  personal  com- 
forts, and  at  the  same  time  would  pay  eight  hun- 
dred francs  for  an  antique  bedstead  of  carved  oak 
in  which  Marguerite  de  Yalois  slept,  in  1519,  at 
the  Chateau  of  Tours.  In  order  to  install  it  in  his 
apartments,  he  was  obliged  to  widen  his  doorway, 
in  much  the  same  fashion  as  did  Louis  XIY.  when 
the  gates  of  the  cities  were  too  narrow.  Gerard 
slept  on  the  floor  by  its  side,  on  a  coarse  mattress, 
from  a  feeling  of  respect — a  conservative  opinion 
that  only  the  descendants  of  kings  should  sleep  in 
the  beds  of  their  ancestors.  Of  the  poor-devil 
sort  of  existence  which  Jules  Janin  has  attributed 
to  Gerard,  even  in  his  moments  of  opulence,  the 
poet  really  knew  little.  He  led,  it  is  true,  the  life 
of  a  Bohemian.  His  sensitive  nature  deterred 
10 


144  FRENCH   MEN   OF   LETTERS. 

him  from  hurting  the  feelings  of  his  fellows  by  a 
vain  or  even  a  comfortable  display.  Theophile 
Gautier,  Arsene  Houssaye,  Ourliac,  and  Alphonse 
Karr  knew  this  by  experience.  This  illustrious 
band  lived  in  common  in  a  mansion  two  centuries 
old,  which  stood  in  the  Rue  du  Doyenne.  There 
were  also  a  number  of  musicians,  painters,  and  ar- 
tists of  every  sort.  It  was  a  veritable  pandemo- 
nium, a  cercle  dj  la  Collot,  a  noisy,  grotesque,  inde- 
scribable assemblage,  into  whose  midst  the  land- 
lord never  dared  to  enter  bill  in  hand.  On  the 
occasion  when,  for  the  first  and  last  time,  he  was 
guilty  of  that  indiscretion,  the  dwellers  solemnly 
exhibited  to  him  a  number  of  freshly  and  gor- 
geously decorated  panels,  the  work  of  the  paint- 
ers. 

"  Behold,  unhappy  man  !  "  they  said.  "  It  is 
you  who  owe  tis  money." 

"  You  are  right,"  replied  the  brave  fellow,  as 
he  retired  for  ever. 

While  the  painters  were  at  their  easels  and 
the  musicians  at  the  piano,  De  Nerval,  Gautier, 
Houssaye,  and  Karr  wrote  score  after  score  of 
brilliant  articles  for  the  "  Yert- Veit." 

Some  twenty-five  years  ago,  during  the  de- 
molition of  the  Place  du  Carrousel,  a  man  of  ner- 
vous mien  was  observed  examining  the  debris,  es- 
pecially the  ruins  of  doorways  and  the  woodwork. 
He  at  last  uttered  a  cry  of  satisfaction.  In  a  few 
moments  he  showed  the  contractor  of  the  work  to 


GISRARD  DE  nerval.  145 

a  spot  where  lay  five  panels,  very  much  dam- 
aged. 

"  How  much  will  you  take  for  these  ? "  he 
asked. 

"  Humph  !  "  said  the  contractor  ;  "  they  are 
paintings." 

"  I  don't  want  to  purchase  them  for  kindling- 
wood." 

"They  are  paintings  by  great  masters,  mon- 
sieur." 

"Confound  the  masters  !     I  want  your  price." 

"  Five  hundred  francs." 

"  Very  well.  I  shall  return  in  half  an  hour  "  ; 
and  Gerard  hurried  to  the  office  of  the  "  Revue  des 
Deux  Mondes,"  drew  the  money  for  three  articles, 
returned  to  the  contractor,  and  paid  him  five  hun- 
dred francs  for  the  works  of  his  former  compan- 
ions of  the  Rue  du  Doyenne,  which,  in  truth,  were 
not  worth  more  than  fifty  cents  each — a  bargain 
worthy  of  Glaucus. 

It  is  curious  to  note  that,  enthusiastic  as  he 
was  in  gathering  objects  of  vertu,  Gerard  never 
attempted  to  give  to  his  immense  collection  any 
classification  whatever.  He  stored  them  topsy- 
turvy in  a  couple  of  garrets  far  from  his  lodg- 
ings— if  he  could  be  said  ever  to  have  possessed 
such.  The  unforeseen  was  his  delight.  He  ate 
and  slept  anywhere.  He  wrote  articles — ay,  vol- 
umes— as  he  passed  through  the  thoroughfares  of 
Paris,  pencil  and  paper  in  hand,  jostled  and  el- 


146  FRENCH  MEN  OF   LETTERS. 

bowed  by  the  cold,  careless,  hurrying  stream  of 
wayfarers. 

In  collaboration  with  Dumas  he  wrote  the 
highly  successful  drama  of  "Piquillo,"  which 
Mompon  set  to  music.  Dumas,  as  was  his  habit, 
alone  signed  the  libretto.  Gerard  took  out  his 
share  in  gazing  upon  and  applauding  Adrienne, 
who  acted  one  of  the  principal  roles.  But  when 
"  Leo  Burckart "  was  composed  under  similar  cir- 
cumstances, Gerard  did  not  hesitate  to  say,  "  It  is 
now  my  turn  to  sign  alone";  and  Dumas  was  con- 
strained to  forego  his  ordinary  noble  habit. 

We  now  arrive  at  the  somber  epoch  in  which 
death  came  between  Gerard  and  the  object  of  his 
adoration.  Almost  in  the  midst  of  her  triumphs, 
in  the  fullest  bloom  of  her  beauty,  Adrienne  passed 
away.  Gerard's  grief  was  intense.  He  had  never 
had  the  pleasure  even  of  speaking  a  single  word 
to  her.  "  Now  that  death  has  claimed  the  lover 
and  the  loved,"  says  Mirecourt,  "  we  are  permitted 
to  reveal  the  identity  of  Adrienne.  She  was  none 
other  than  the  celebrated  Jenny  Colon." 

Henceforward  Paris  became  intolerable  to  De 
Nerval.  Unable  to  rest  in  any  spot,  he  wandered 
with  feverish  haste  from  west  to  east,  from  north 
to  south,  from  Rome  to  Venice,  from  Vienna  to 
Berlin,  from  Constantinople  to  Cairo — to-day  in 
Europe,  to-morrow  in  Asia  or  Africa.  He  frequent- 
ly found  himself  with  an  empty  purse  ;  he  con- 
fided, like  the  birds,  in  the  winds  of  Providence. 


Gl^RARD   DE   NERVAL.  147 

Either  from  fatigue  or  from  failure  to  overcome 
his  persistent  memories,  he  returned  to  Paris  in  a 
condition  which  became  with  his  friends  the  source 
of  serious  inquietude.  The  materialism  of  this 
century,  which  too  often  parades  itself  as  science, 
had  thrown  upon  a  false  road  the  delicate  and 
mystic  soul  of  Gerard  de  Nerval.  His  tempera- 
ment revolted  powerfully  against  every  gross  in- 
stinct. It  was  said — and  with  an  unpardonable 
sneer — that  he  never  really  descended  to  the  earth 
of  his  fellows. 

Gerard  profited  by  a  return  to  health  to  seek 
for  an  extended  sojourn  in  the  East,  in  order  to 
escape  the  prescriptions  of  his  doctors — a  measure 
which  argued  more  good  sense  than  many  would 
then  allow.  Certain  foreign  bonds,  which  he  had 
purchased  when  apparently  worthless,  had  sudden- 
ly risen  to  a  high  premium,  and  their  sale  afforded 
him  the  means  of  living  for  some  time  free  from 
pecuniary  pressure. 

Could  I  do  them  anything  like  justice,  I  should 
willingly  follow  him  through  his  wonderful  ad- 
ventures. The  "  Voyage  in  the  East "  is  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  books  in  any  literature,  and 
by  no  means  inferior  to  Gautier's  "  Constan- 
tinople." 

The  poet  had  traversed  Austria  anew,  embarked 
upon  the  Adriatic,  visited  the  Cyclades,  Turkey, 
Greece,  and  Egypt,  returning  to  Paris  early  in 
1841.     Convinced  that  enough  had  already  been 


148  FRENCH  MEN   OF  LETTERS. 

written  of  the  East,  our  poet  did  not  at  first  dream 
of  publishing  the  record  of  his  travels.  The  abun- 
dant interest  evinced  by  his  friends  for  his  narra- 
tions induced  him,  however,  to  contribute  to 
"L' Artiste"  the  "Voyage  en  Grece,"  and  to  the 
"Revue  des  Deux  Mondes,"  in  1848,  the  "Voyage 
en  Orient." 

Gerard  was  subject  to  a  sort  of  mystical  exal- 
tation which  was  commonly  looked  upon  as  a  harm- 
less lunacy.  After  a  third  attack  of  this  affection 
he  was  taken  to  Bicetre,  the  Bloomingdale  of 
Paris.  On  his  release  he  published  a  series  of  tales, 
in  which,  with  amazing  truth  and  effect,  he  por- 
trayed life  in  an  asylum.  His  book  was  planned 
to  destroy  the  impression  that  he  was  a  lunatic,  by 
proving  that  not  only  during  his  confinement,  but 
during  his  strange  reveries,  he  retained  the  full 
power  of  his  analytic  and  logical  faculties  !  The 
mysticism  of  certain  men,  he  affirmed,  and  their 
tendency  to  penetrate  a  transcendental  world,  do 
not  argue  mental  aberration,  but  a  fixed  idea. 
His  arguments  triumphed.  Another  strange  pe- 
culiarity in  his  character  was  his  belief  that  the 
spirits  of  the  dead  are  ever  around  us,  hearing 
what  we  say  and  seeing  what  we  do.  To  one  who 
would  speak  of  Jenny  Colon,  he  would  say,  "  Be 
silent ;  she  is  dead,  and  I  am  convinced  that  her 
spirit  is  here  to  see  and  listen  to  us." 

After  the  publication    of  "  Les  Illumines,"  a 
paper  of  socialistic  tendencies,  he  wrote  for  the 


giSrard  de  nerval.  149 

"  Revue "  an  elaborate  series  of  studies  of  Hein- 
rich  Heine.  His  ruling  passion  was  now  to  return 
to  the  East,  but  bis  slender  means  rendered  such 
an  indulgence  this  time  impossible.  There  was 
always  some  drain  upon  his  scanty  funds.  He  had 
always  to  buy  a  Chinese  screen  for  Houssaye,  a 
coffer  for  Gautier,  an  old  book  for  Janin,  a  Flem- 
ish painting  for  Stadler.  He  never  seemed  to 
realize  the  necessity  of  clothes  :  to  induce  him  to 
buy  a  new  coat  was  always  a  difficult  task  for  his 
friends. 

His  friend  Stadler,  who  regarded  him  as  a 
brother,  thinking  that  Gerard  needed  distraction, 
gave  him  one  day  five  hundred  francs,  to  enable 
him  to  attend  the  anniversary  of  Goethe's  birth- 
day, at  Weimar.  The  translator  of  "Faust" 
was  received  with  most  magnificent  hospitalities, 
and  the  hereditary  Grand  Duke  personally  hon- 
ored him  with  marked  attentions.  It  was  shortly 
after  this  that  his  health  began  rapidly  to  fail. 
He  was  at  the  time  struggling  hard  against  pov- 
erty, something  common  enough  among  his  con- 
temporary litterateurs.  His  friends  placed  him  at 
intervals  under  the  care  of  Dr.  Blanche.  They 
mistook  for  a  mental  failing  that  which  was  a 
deep-rooted  affection  of  the  heart.  His  sadness 
and  his  discouragement  grew  worse.  Shortly  be- 
fore he  died,  he  disappeared,  and  for  several  weeks 
baffled  the  search  of  his  friends.  Whither  had 
he  betaken  himself  ?     In  what  passion,  in  what 


150  FRENCH   MEN   OF   LETTERS. 

excesses,  did  he  seek  surcease  of  his  suffering  ? 
His  mode  of  life  became  a  mystery. 

On  the  26th  of  January,  1855,  he  was  found 
dead  in  the  Rue  de  la  Yieille  Lanterne,  a  street  of 
frightful  aspect,  since  destroyed  to  make  way  for 
the  Hotel  de  Yille.  Had  he  been  the  victim  of  a 
nocturnal  assault  ?  Had  he  found  in  suicide  the 
end  of  his  grief  and  misery  ?  No  one  has  solved 
this  enigma. 

On  the  day  before  his  death  he  asked  of  Gau- 
tier  a  sou — "  a  "single  sou,"  he  iterated  to  his  fellow 
poet,  who,  thinking  him  in  need  of  money,  was 
about  to  offer  him  a  much  larger  sum.  On  receiv- 
ing the  coin  he  cut  with  his  knife  two  cross  lines 
upon  its  surface,  made  a  hole  in  the  disk,  and 
hung  it  about  his  neck.  So  it  was  found  upon 
his  dead  body,  and  was  reclaimed  by  Gautier. 
This  relic  has  since  passed  into  the  hands,  I  be- 
lieve, of  Victor  Hugo. 

A  few  anecdotes  and  bons-mots  will  appropri- 
ately close  this  sketch.  While  breakfasting  in  a 
fashionable  coffee-house,  he  observed  a  wood-louse 
in  his  plate  of  sauce.  "  Here,  gar9on,"  he  called 
to  the  attendant,  "  I  wish  you  would  serve  wood- 
lige.on  a  separate  dish."  During  his  cerebral  dis- 
ease; *8ome  one  'asked .  him  the  nature  of  his  ail- 
ment. "  A  hot  fever, ; monsieur,"  was  his  answer 
— "a  hot  fever,  complicated-^^by. physicians." 

Two  of  his  mostK£^m6us*6o»&-mo/s  are  likely 
to  yet  attain  a  world-wide   reputation.     One  is. 


ALEXANDRE  DUMAS,  FILS.  151 

"  The  highest  expression  of  liberty  is  selfishness  "  ; 
the  other,  "  The  only  vice  of  which  man  does 
not  boast  is  ingratitude." 


ALEXANDRE  DUMAS,  FILS. 

To  account  for  my  desire  to  become  acquainted 
with  this  great  romancer,  I  must  retrace  a  period 
of  nearly  twenty  years  and  go  back  to  my  earliest 
youth — ^to  the  happy  time  when  my  bigoted  tutor, 
by  banishing  Dumas's  novels  from  my  table,  im- 
parted to  them  all  the  flavor  of  forbidden  fruit. 
The  effect  of  perusing  his  fictions  was  to  insepa- 
rably associate  the  author's  personality  with  my 
first  awakening  to  the  depth  and  variety  of  human 
character. 

Once  in  Paris,  it  is  needless  to  say  that  I  used 
all  my  efforts  to  become  personally  acquainted 
with  a  man  with  whom,  through  his  writings,  I 
had  long  lived  on  terms  of  the  closest  intimacy. 
When  I  presented  myself  at  his  house,  in  the  Rue 
de  Villers,  the  ringing  of  his  door-bell  was  outdone 
by  the  beating  of  my  heart.  His  servants  were 
moving  about  amid  masses  of  trunks  of  all  kinds, 
sizes,  and  shapes,  which  were  scattered  throughout 
the  vestibule. 

"Is  Monsieur  Dumas  in?"  I  hesitatingly 
asked  the  servant  who  opened  the  door.     From 


152  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

his  answer  I  learned  that  Dumas  had  left  for  Puys, 
where  he  habitually  spends  his  summers,  after  pass- 
ing a  month  at  La  Bourboule,  a  watering-place 
dear  to  all  who  have  faith  in  the  efficacy  of  arsen- 
ical springs.  His  attendants  were  to  follow  him 
that  evening.  The  master  being  away,  that  rigor 
was  relaxed  by  which  strangers  are  generally  ex- 
cluded from  his  house.  To  judge  from  the  smile 
of  pity  which  played  upon  their  lips,  Dumas's  ser- 
vants were  accustomed  to  the  spectacle  of  young 
men  presenting  themselves  in  hopeless  embarrass- 
ment at  their  master's  door.  They  now  seemed 
fully  alive  to  the  importance  of  their  positions  as 
servants  of  a  great  man,  and  in  the  humor,  too, 
to  indulge  in  chat  and  to  regard  me  from  a  pedes- 
tal to  which  Monsieur  Dumas's  absence  lent  a  tem- 
porary but  supreme  elevation. 

"  When  will  Monsieur  Dumas  return  ?  "  I  stam- 
mered. 

"  We  never  return  from  the  country  before 
September,"  was  the  reply. 

"  I  am  quite  disappointed.  I  should  have  been 
so  pleased  to  see  him." 

"  That  is  not  an  easy  thing.  We  are  generally 
so  busy,  and  the  number  of  visitors  is  daily  so 
great,  that  we  are  obliged  to  be  very  strict  in  re- 
fusing admission  to  strangers." 

I  could  not,  however,  make  up  my  mind  to 
leave  the  house  without  having  obtained  some  re- 
sult from  an  errand  which  had  cost  me  so  much 


ALEXANDRE  DUMAS,  FILS.  153 

hesitation  ;  and  so,  plucking  up  courage,  I  dis- 
played a  Louis  d'or  and  ventured  to  ask  again, 
"  May  I  at  least  solicit  the  honor  of  a  glance  at 
your  master's  study  ?  " 

In  the  house  of  so  keen  an  analyst  of  human 
nature,  the  gold  piece  could  not  be  refused.  In 
taking  it  the  valet  who  opened  the  door  seeming- 
ly wished  to  prove  to  me  that  he  was  as  good  a 
physiognomist  as  his  master,  and,  with  a  knowing 
air,  suggested  :  "  Monsieur  is  evidently  a  jour- 
nalist ?  " 

"  No,  I  am  a  man  of  leisure,  and  an  occasional 
writer." 

"  And  monsieur  would  be  contented — " 

"To  catch  but  a  glimpse  of  your  master's 
house." 

"  We  are  going  to  show  it  you  ; "  and,  after  a 
moment's  hesitation,  he  added  :  "  Pray,  come  this 
way." 

Dumas's  house  stands  in  a  garden  inclosed  by 
a  wrought-iron  fence  which  presents  at  intervals 
the  monogram  of  the  novelist.  The  ivy  which 
covers  the  house  invests  it  with  a  charming  sem- 
blance of  old  age,  while  the  garden  is  always 
filled  with  fresh  and  choice  flowers,  which  impart 
to  the  whole  an  air  of  youth  and  gay  picturesque- 
ness.  Everything  is  arranged  with  that  exquisite 
taste  which  bespeaks  the  artist  and  the  poet,  and 
reflects  his  happiness.  In  visiting  this  house  one 
feels  as  though  he  were  passing  through  a  sun- 


154  FRENCH  MEN   OF  LETTERS. 

beam.  The  vestibule  communicates  with  the  par- 
lor, chiefly  reserved  for  Madame  Dumas,  with  the 
dining-room,  the  billiard-room,  a  small  library, 
and  the  novelist's  study.  A  wide  staircase,  with 
banisters  of  wood  carved  in  Flemish  style,  leads 
to  the  upper  floor.  The  most  striking  objects  in 
this  anteroom  are  a  bust  of  Moli^re  casting  a 
melancholy  smile  upon  a  handsome  bust  of  the 
elder  Dumas. 

The  walls  of  the  parlor  are  covered  with 
striped  satin  in  red  and  gold,  framed  with  a  nar- 
row border  of  gray  wood,  revealing  a  very  deli- 
cate taste.  Old  lackers  and  china  vases,  Venice 
mirrors  and  chandeliers,  furniture  in  the  Louis 
XV.  style,  together  with  an  unusual  provision  of 
cut  flowers,  fill  the  room  with  perfumes  and  sug- 
gestive images  of  the  past.  The  gems  of  the  par- 
lor are,  however,  the  mantel-piece,  supported  by 
two  caryatides  in  gilded  wood  exquisitely  carved, 
and  a  painting  by  Jacquet  representing  the  first 
arrival  at  a  ball. 

The  dining-room,  in  Cordova  leather,  with  its 
huge  clock  "  de  Boule  "  and  its  high  and  square 
chairs,  recalls  the  style  of  the  Louis  XIV.  epoch. 
Many  people  have  seated  themselves  around  that 
mahogany  table  who  could .  get  a  dinner  nowhere 
else  ;  for  the  skeptic  who  so  frequently  rails  at 
the  world's  failings  has  a  heart  always  open  to  its 
miseries. 

As  a  matter  of  course  the  room  that  I  was 


ALEXANDRE   DUMAS,  FILS.  155 

most  desirous  to  see  was  the  novelist's  study.  It 
is  unusually  large,  has  three  windows  opening  upon 
the  garden,  and  is  covered  all  around  with  Cor- 
dova leather.  A  low  book-case  in  carved  rose- 
wood, containing  a  collection  of  books  such  as 
the  most  refined  bibliophile  might  be  charmed 
to  possess,  extends  around  the  entire  apartment. 
His  father's  works,  exquisitely  bound,  and  his 
own,  occupy  separate  shelves.  In  the  center  of 
the  room  stands  the  writing-desk,  the  largest,  per- 
haps, that  I  have  ever  seen.  One  side  is  sur- 
mounted by  narrow,  vertical  pigeon-holes  stocked 
with  fine  English  writing  paper  of  every  sort. 
Dumas  can  not  and  will  not  write  on  ordinary 
paper.  The  floor  about  his  arm-chair  is  strewn 
with  dictionaries  and  encyclopaedias  which  bear 
the  marks  of  having  been  much  handled.  He 
calls  these  his  "  aides-de-camp."  The  walls  above 
the  library  are  enriched  with  a  priceless  collection 
of  paintings,  modern  and  antique.  Diaz,  Fortuny, 
Marchal,  Yernet,  Delacroix  are  there  seen  at  their 
best.  Dumas  generally  presents  himself  with  a 
new  painting  after  he  has  presented  a  new  book 
to  the  public.  Those  paintings  he  styles  "the 
prizes  of  encouragement  he  has  won."  Under  a 
rare  yataghan  is  suspended  the  likeness  of  his 
father,  by  Marchal.  The  elder  Dumas  is  here 
represented  from  the  waist  up,  in  a  white  shirt 
lavishly  open  at  the  neck,  displaying  the  broad 
chest  of  an  athlete.     As  a  pendant  to  his  father's 


156  FRENCH  MEN   OF  LETTERS. 

portrait  hangs  Ms  own,  a  masterly  work  by  Du- 
bufe.  His  bust  by  Carpeaux,  a  splendid  repro- 
duction of  the  Laocoon,  and  a  terra-cotta  model 
of  the  monument  to  Regnault,  occupy  the  panels 
between  the  windows.  All  available  corners  are 
devoted  to  a  number  of  costly  presents  and  prizes, 
souvenirs  and  the  like.  Every  day  Madame  Du- 
mas— formerly  a  Countess  Narishkine — places  on 
his  desk  a  vase  filled  with  fresh  flowers  of  the 
season,  which,  together  with  three  framed  pho- 
tographs, representing  Madame  Dumas,  and  his 
children  Jeannine  and  Colette,  and  an  army  of 
pens  and  inkstands,  are  the  objects  which  alone 
have  the  honor  of  occupying  the  great  novelist's 
writing-desk.  I  experienced  a  delicious  expan- 
sion of  the  lungs,  a  thorough  satisfaction,  in  gaz- 
ing about  me.  The  atmosphere  seemed  still  per- 
vaded with  the  presence  of  a  superior  being.  His 
thoughts  and  feelings  seemed  to  throng  around 
me.  I  know  not  how  long  I  remained  in  contem- 
plation of  the  scene.  The  valet  who  was  my 
guide  regarded  me  at  last  with  an  expression  at 
once  satirical  and  disconcerting.  I  thought  I  had 
remained  too  long,  so  I  thanked  him  and  left. 

A  few  days  later  found  me  at  Puys.  This 
place  is  a  village  on  the  shore  of  Brittany,  situat- 
ed about  twenty-five  minutes'  ride  from  Dieppe. 
It  was  George  Sand  who,  in  1858,  pointed  out 
the  spot  to  Dumas,  then  longing  for  solitude.  At 
that  time  there  were  in  this  locality  but  twelve 


ALEXANDRE  DUMAS,  FILS.  157 

houses,  mostly  those  of  fishermen.  Dumas  was 
pleased  with  the  picturesque  loneliness  of  the 
place  and  purchased  an  old  mansion,  together 
with  thirty  thousand  square  metres  of  surround- 
ing land,  the  better  to  preclude  the  intrusion  of 
neighbors.  But  his  presence  soon  rendered  Puys 
a  fashionable  resort.  Many  men  of  note  wished 
to  have  cottages  there,  and  applications  to  pur- 
chase portions  of  his  ground  poured  in  upon  the 
novelist  from  all  sides.  Though  in  most  cases 
declining  such  offers,  he  could  not  refrain  from 
yielding  to  the  desires  of  a  few  friends  like 
Montigny,  the  director  of  the  Gymnase  Theatre, 
Madame  Carvalho,  the  celebrated  opera-singer, 
Lord  Salisbury,  and  certain  others.  These  peo- 
ple now  usually  pass  their  summers  in  the  imme- 
diate neighborhood  of  Alexandre  Dumas.  The 
man  who  has  most  contributed,  however,  toward 
transforming  and  civilizing  Puys  is  Yazili,  the 
Circassian  whom  Dumas  pere  brought  with  him 
from  the  East.  He  has  built  a  hotel  there  and 
aims  at  nothing  less  than  converting  Puys  into 
another  Trouville.  At  this  Dumas  grieves,  but 
out  of  love  for  his  father's  old  servant  he  places  no 
obstacles  in  his  path.  The  fishermen  of  Puys  found 
it  impossible  to  pronounce  "  Vazili,"  and  changed 
it  first  to  ''  Basilic,"  and  finally  to  "  Pacific."  I 
recommend  this  fact  to  the  notice  of  philologists. 
Whenever  the  present  condition  of  Puys  is  alluded 
to,  Dumas  will  say,  with  a  sigh  :  "  Yes  ;  it  is  im- 


158  FRENCH   MEN   OF   LETTERS. 

proving  wonderfully.  It  becomes  very  beautiful, 
but  alas  !  inhabitable."  Puys  is  the  last  resting- 
place  of  Dumas  pere.  This  endears  the  spot  to 
the  son,  who  wishes  to  die  in  the  summer,  that  is, 
at  Puys.  Close  upon  the  sea  Dumas  has  had  a 
pavilion  constructed,  the  chief  use  of  which  is  to 
serve  as  a  studio  for  his  artist  friends,  whose  so- 
ciety he  enjoys  more  than  that  of  any  other  class. 
There,  amid  cruel  sufferings  which  death  has  mer- 
cifully ended,  Carpeaux,  in  1875,  modeled  his  last 
work,  that  charming  fisherwoman,  so  popular  un- 
der the  name  of  "La  Fee  aux  Monies."  Here, 
also,  the  great  and  unfortunate  painter,  Charles 
Marchal,  who  a  few  years  ago  committed  suicide, 
painted  his  best  pictures. 

Dumas's  cottage  at  Puys,  though  he  likens  its 
architecture  to  that  of  a  railway  station,  is  very 
attractive.  It  is  built  in  the  English  style,  with 
a  lofty  flight  of  steps  and  a  commodious  veran- 
da running  around  all  four  walls.  Hammocks, 
suspended  fans,  and  heavy  creepers  impart  to  the 
house  an  air  of  Oriental  coolness  and  comfort, 
such  as  may  be  seen  perhaps  at  their  best  on  the 
Bosporus.  The  first  floor  is  divided  into  a  study 
for  the  novelist,  a  dining-room,  and  a  billiard- 
room.  Billiards  are  one  of  Dumas's  favorite  pas- 
times. 

As  I  was  ascending  the  stoop  of  the  house, 
Dumas,  clad  in  a  white  linen  suit,  came  out  escort- 
ing Mademoiselle  Desclees.    She  had  been  consult- 


ALEXANDRE  DUMAS,  FILS.  159 

ing  with  him  in  regard  to  some  points  in  his  play, 
*'  Princesse  George." 

Dumas  impresses  one  with  an  overwhelming 
sense  of  superiority.  He  seems  like  a  prophet  in 
a  frock-coat.  His  countenance  is  characterized 
by  an  extraordinary  power  of  attraction.  To 
women  he  offers  the  enticement  of  a  mystery, 
and  this  is  probably  the  reason  why  they  are  so 
fascinated  with  him.  Wherever  he  goes,  ladies 
forget  any  one  else  for  him.  He  seems,  too,  so 
fond  of  their  society  that  he  has  been  styled 
"L'ami  des  Femmes."  But  whether  he  loves 
them  or  not,  whether  he  burns  or  worships  his 
idols,  is  an  open  question.  I  have  heard  many 
lady  friends  of  his  say  that  he  was  to  them  a  per- 
fect enigma.  Dumas  is  tall,  broad-shouldered,  and 
otherwise  strongly  built,  and  he  needs  to  be  to 
carry  his  immense  literary  baggage.  He  has  blue 
eyes,  and  eyebrows  as  light  as  his  long,  dishev- 
eled, crispy  mustache.  Fancy,  if  you  can,  a 
blonde  Creole,  and  you  will  gather  an  idea  of  the 
appearance  of  his  hair,  which  contrasts  singularly 
with  his  brownish  complexion,  but  is  not  at  all 
disagreeable.  When  he  frowns,  as  he  frequently 
does,  two  deep  vertical  wrinkles  appear  above  his 
nose,  which  suggest  the  strength  and  breadth  of 
his  thinking  faculties.  His  ever-recurring  and 
skeptical  smile  serves  to  display  his  thick  red  lips 
and  beautiful  white  teeth.  Dumas  shows,  almost 
uncovered,  those  bones,  which,  in  his  father's  face, 
11 


160  FRE!\^CH   MEN   OF  LETTERS. 

were  hidden  by  a  thick  stratum  of  flesh,  just  as 
his  epicurean  philosophy  was  concealed  in  vain, 
bombastic  prose. 

From  my  manner  Dumas  doubtless  inferred 
that  he  had  in  me  an  admirer,  and  one  who  knew 
him  well  through  his  writings.  He  advanced  and 
gave  me  his  hand,  and,  thanks  to  his  kindly  man- 
ner, I  was  soon  comparatively  at  ease,  and  we  were 
engaged  in  animated  conversation.  I  do  not  think 
that4!  have  ever  met  a  more  entertaining  talker. 
At  the  moment  it  seemed  as  though  his  novels 
and  plays,  upon  which  I  had  spent  days  and  nights 
in  a  sort  of  rapture,  would  ever  after  seem  tame  if 
compared  with  the  verve  of  his  conversation.  The 
gravity  and  severity  which  I  had  expected  seemed 
wholly  uncharacteristic  of  the  man  ;  he  even  ex- 
pressed the  loftiest  philosophical  ideas  in  a  laugh- 
ing, racy  fashion,  for  which  I  can  find  no  parallel. 
I  can  not  tell  how  it  happened,  but  our  conversa- 
tion turned  upon  the  Gospel  as  a  code  of  morals. 
His  views  in  this  regard  were  to  me  a  revelation. 
Never  did  theologian  more  completely  illustrate 
the  beauty  and  greatness  of  the  Gospel  than  did 
Dumas  in  a  few  phrases.  The  author  of  "  La 
Dame  aux  Camelias"  induced  me  to  study  the 
ISTew  Testament — "the  book,"  said  he,  "from 
which  I  have  derived  all  my  inspiration." 

When  among  his  iiitimes  the  author  of  "Le 
Demi-Monde"  bears  no  likeness  to  any  portrait 
that  may  be  formed  of  him  by  speculating  over 


ALEXANDRE  DUMAS,  FILS.  161 

his  books.  He  is  very  simple  and  gay.  But  for 
the  startling  theories  and  dazzling  witticisms  that 
now  and  then  betray  him,  he  could  not  be  distin- 
guished from  any  amiable  bourgeois  who  heartily 
detests  etiquette.  His  coat  seems  to  be  a  heavy 
burden  for  his  shoulders,  and  he  will  gladly  take 
it  off  whenever  he  can  induce  his  friends  to  do 
likewise.  However  surprising  and  fascinating  his 
conversation,  his  keen  perception  of  other  peo- 
ple's character  is  still  more  astonishing.  He  is 
the  greatest  mind-reader  with  whom  I  have  come 
in  contact.  No  man  can  conceal  his  thoughts 
from  him.  He  reads  them  on  the  countenance, 
as  though  it  were  an  open  book.  I  should,  how- 
ever, have  said  no  woman — for  he  seldom  takes 
the  trouble  to  scrutinize  the  face  of  a  person  of 
his  own  sex. 

What  a  strange,  romantic  life  Dumas's  has 
been  !  He  was  born  on  the  24th  of  July,  1824. 
His  mother  was  a  beautiful  young  seamstress  with 
whom  his  father  fell  in  love.  Her  intellectual 
qualities  were  as  high  as  her  social  position  was 
low.  She  died  in  giving  birth  to  the  subject  of 
the  present  sketch.  Dumas  p^re  has  written  in 
his  "  Memoires  "  :  "  As  the  Duke  of  Montpensicr 
entered  the  world,  a  Duke  of  Chartres  was  born 
to  me."  Young  Dumas  pursued  his  studies  at  the 
private  school  of  Monsieur  Goubaux,  a  collabora- 
tor of  his  father,  and  afterward  the  founder  of 
the  now  famous  College  Chaptal  in  Paris.     The 


162  FREiXCH  MEN   OF  LETTERS. 

ignominy  of  his  illegitimate  birth  preyed  con- 
stantly upon  young  Dumas's  mind.  He  grew 
thoughtful  and  sad.  During  the  school  vacations 
he  was  yearly  taken  by  his  father  from  the  insti- 
tution, but  it  was  understood  that  he  should  call 
him  "  Monsieur  Dumas."  The  youth  was  one  day 
seen  by  his  father  to  hide  a  book  under  his  coat. 
"  What  are  you  hiding  ?  "  Dumas  asked. 

"  Nothing,"  replied  his  son. 

"  No  falsehoods,  my  boy  ;  let  me  see  what  you 
have  there." 

"  ^fimile,"  by  Girardin,  was  produced.  A  close 
analogy  existed  between  the  boy's  condition  and 
that  of  "£mile."  "If  you  must  read  such  a 
book,"  said  Dumas  pere,  "  I  wish  that,  instead  of 
hiding  it,  you  would  give  me  your  honest  opinion 
of  it." 

"  I  approve  of  *  ifimile,' "  the  boy  haughtily  re- 
plied. "  I  think  he  did  well  to  boldly  assume  the 
name  of  which  he  had  been  unjustly  deprived  by 
his  father.     I  shall  do  likewise." 

Tears  stood  in  the  father's  eyes.  He  embraced 
the  boy.  "  Take  my  name,  and  God  bless  you  !  " 
he  said,  and  there  was  legally  a  Dumas  the 
younger.  A  radical  .change  now  took  place  in 
his  character.  Happiness  made  him  as  amiable 
and  good-natured  as  he  had  previously  been  in- 
tractable and  morose. 

At  the  age  of  eighteen  he  was  introduced  by 
his  father  as  "  his  best  work  "  to  a  party  which 


ALEXANDRE   DUMAS,  FILS.  163 

had  gathered  at  Madame  Yaldor's.  Young  Dumas 
charmed  every  one  by  his  wit  and  talent.  While 
the  entertainment  was  at  its  height,  his  absence 
from  the  ballroom  was  noticed.  He  was  found  at 
last  in  the  most  remote  room  of  the  suite,  making 
a  burning  declaration  of  love  to  Mademoiselle 
Melaine  Yaldor,  a  daughter  of  the  hostess.  "  Nat- 
urally enough,"  exclaims  Eugene  de  Mirecourt, 
who  relates  the  anecdote,  "his  father  took  him 
from  college.     He  had  nothing  more  to  learn." 

The  name  of  Mirecourt  recalls  another  anec- 
dote of  Dumas's  early  life.  So  outspoken  a  man 
as  Mirecourt  could  always  find  something  to  criti- 
cise in  the  elder  Dumas,  either  as  a  man  or  as  an 
author.  Dumas  fils,  who  loved  his  father  very 
devotedly,  at  last  became  so  incensed  by  the  in- 
sulting strictures  of  Mirecourt,  that  he  sent  him  a 
formal  challenge.  Owing  to  an  awkward  mistake 
of  the  seconds,  M.  Mirecourt  thought  he  had  to 
deal  with  Dumas  p5re,  and  immediately  accept- 
ed. Subsequently,  on  learning  the  truth,  he  sum- 
moned his  son  Edward,  a  boy  of  fifteen,  and  thus 
addressed  the  seconds  :  "  Gentlemen,  you  must 
have  made  a  mistake.  A  message  from  young 
Dumas  must  certainly  be  for  young  Mirecourt. 
Dumas  p^re  is  healthy  and  strong  enough  to  set- 
tle his  own  quarrels.  Please  report  my  answer  to 
the  young  man.  If  he  insists,  I  will  let  my  son 
Edward  meet  him."  Young  Dumas  saw  the  jus- 
tice  of   Mirecourt's   reply,  received  it   good-na- 


164  FRENCH   MEN   OF  LETTERS. 

turedly,  and  laughed  at  his  own  folly.  He  con- 
tented himself  with  saying  :  "  I  will  show  this 
old  Giboyer  that,  young  as  I  am,  I  am  as  much  of 
a  man  as  he  is."  He  set  himself  to  work,  and 
produced  in  quick  succession,  "  Sins  of  Youth," 
and  "The  Adventures  of  Four  Women  and  a 
Parrot."  These  novels  certainly  abound  in  the 
inherent  faults  of  a  young  writer  ;  but,  even  in 
these  crude  productions,  the  genius  of  Dumas  so 
unmistakably  asserted  itself  that  it  was  confi- 
dently predicted  that  he  would  in  time  excel  his 
father. 

The  great  secret  of  the  excellence  of  Dumas 
is  that  he  himself  lives  through  all  his  romances 
and  plays.  He  has  analyzed  not  only  the  weak- 
nesses and  passions  of  the  outer  world,  but  his  own 
likewise.  He  succeeds  because  he  is  true  ;  be- 
cause his  heart  throbs  in  his  works  ;  because  he 
serves  up  the  tears  of  his  own  eyes,  and  drops  of 
his  own  blood.  "  L' Affaire  Clemenceau  "  is  only 
the  story  of  his  childhood  corrected,  and  revised 
for  public  use.  In  "  La  Vie  a  Vingt  Ans  "  we  get 
an  insight  into  the  mysteries  of  his  youth.  In 
"  La  Dame  aux  Camelias  "  he  is  Armand  arrested 
in  his  reckless  path  to  perdition  by  the  death  of 
the  woman  he  loves. 

Dumas  fils  frequently  soars  high  in  the  realms 
of  paradox  and  transcendentalism.  While  he  has 
touched  upon  all  the  great  problems  which  oc- 
cupy the  thought  of  this  age,  he  prefers  to  deal 


ALEXANDRE  DUMAS,  FILS.  165 

with  those  which  more  closely  concern  out-of-the- 
way  characters  developed,  like  his  own,  under  pe- 
culiar influences.  He  falls  upon  the  exceptional 
products  of  society  like  an  eagle  upon  its  prey,  in 
turn  soothing  their  griefs  with  loving  tenderness 
and  defending  their  virtues  with  a  lion's  courage. 
Abnormal  circumstances  having  presided  over  his 
birth  and  life,  he  was  naturally  interested  in  the 
strange  and  the  abnormal.  "  La  Dame  aux  Ca- 
melias  "  must  be  accepted,  with  some  restrictions, 
as  an  interesting  isolated  fact.  It  was  written  in 
less  than  two  weeks,  in  one  of  the  uncomfortable 
apartments  of  a  country  inn  at  St.  Germain-en- 
Laye,  when  the  author  was  scarcely  twenty-five 
years  old.  In  those  days  Monseigneur  Dupanloup 
was  an  intimate  friend  of  Dumas.  Well-informed 
people  assert  that  the  prelate  was  the  first  to  read 
and  approve  the  production,  and  term  it  "  a  re- 
demption." 

Antony  Beraud,  Dumas  pore's  bosom  friend, 
was  one  evening  discussing  with  the  young  lit- 
terateur the  merits  of  "  La  Cigue,"  by  Augier,  of 
which  the  latter  was  a  decided  admirer.  "  Why 
do  you  not  try  to  dramatize  one  of  your  own  nov- 
els ?  "  asked  Beraud.  "If  you  wish,  I  will  sketch 
upon  paper  for  you  the  skeleton  of  such  a  drama." 
"  Very  well,"  replied  Dumas,  "  bring  it,  and  I  will 
see  what  I  can  do."  Beraud  brought  the  skele- 
ton, but  it  was  far  from  meeting  the  views  of  the 
young  man.     He  addressed  himself  to  the  task 


166  FRENCH   MEN   OF   LETTERS. 

and  wrote  his  first  play,  which,  as  every  one 
knows,  was  an  unprecedented  success.  He  did 
not  preserve  a  single  situation  of  the  skeleton 
furnished  him  by  Beraud.  Dumas,  nevertheless, 
divided  the  royalty  he  derived  from  his  drama 
equally  with  him,  saying  that  the  suggestion  had 
been  to  him  of  great  value. 

The  story  of  Dumas's  eventful  life  can  hardly 
be  told  in  a  few  pages.  Instead  of  his  complete 
biography,  I  intended  to  offer  my  reminiscences  of 
him,  and  a  few  anecdotes  illustrative  of  his  char- 
acter as  a  man  and  a  writer.  One  of  his  most 
marked  characteristics  was,  as  I  have  intimated, 
his  love  for  his  father.  This  attachment  verged 
almost  upon  idolatry,  and  was  characterized,  with- 
al, by  a  freedom  and  camaraderie  seldom  observed 
in  the  relations  between  father  and  son.  Gifted 
with  the  faculty  of  keen  observation,  Dumas  fils 
could  not  help  being  occasionally  shocked  at  the 
eccentricities  of  his  father,  or  from  giving  them  the 
full  benefit  of  his  ridicule.  Many  of  his  sayings 
in  this  regard  are  still  fresh  in  the  minds  of  Pari- 
sians. It  is  known  that  Dumas  p5re,  though  his 
income  was  perhaps  regularly  above  that  of  any 
other  literary  man  in  France,  was  frequently  em- 
barrassed in  his  finances.  His  son  has  spent  more 
money  for  his  father  than  for  himself.  Alluding 
to  the  care  which  he  was  often  obliged  to  devote 
to  the  affairs  of  his  father,  the  younger  novelist 
used  to  say  :  "  My  father  is  a  big  baby,  that  I 


ALEXANDRE  DUMAS,  FILS.  167 

had  on  my  hands  when  I  was  still  a  child." 
Speaking  of  old  Dumas's  vanity,  which  in  truth 
had  no  parallel,  he  once  exclaimed  :  "  My  father 
is  so  vain  that  he  would  take  his  footman's  seat 
on  his  carriage  to  make  people  believe  he  keeps  a 
negro  !  "  On  another  occasion,  in  reply  to  a  state- 
ment that  his  father  was  called  to  account  for 
having  done  something  ungentlemanly,  he  said  : 
"  It  is  not  true  ;  else  he  would  have  mentioned 
the  fact  in  his  '  Memoires.'  "  All  this,  however,  is 
far  from  disproving  his  worship  of  his  father.  I 
well  remember  seeing  tears  gather  to  his  eyes, 
when  my  glance,  full  of  admiration,  rested  on  the 
portrait  of  Dumas  p5re.  "  Ah  !  "  he  exclaimed, 
"  you  would  have  but  little  love  for  me,  had  you 
known  my  father,  so  much  am  I  in  every  way 
his  inferior." 

His  friendship,  whenever  he  bestows  it  upon 
any  one,  is  not  less  genuine  than  his  filial  love. 
Marchal  and  Dr.  Favre  were  his  bosom  friends. 
The  latter  is  Dumas's  living  technical  dictionary 
in  regard  to  physiological  and  psychological  ques- 
tions. It  was  he  who  first  initiated  the  young 
writer  into  the  mysteries  of  pathological  influ- 
ences in  the  development  of  character,  a  subject 
which  no  other  novelist,  except  Zola,  has  dared  to 
handle  boldly.  Marchal  used  to  be  his  opponent 
in  the  daily  game  of  billiards,  of  which  Dumas  is 
fond.  The  stakes  were  generally  a  picture  against 
the  price  thereof.     Dumas  lost  more  frequently 


168  FKENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

than  he  won  ;  but  he  was  wont  to  say  :  "I  am 
always  the  gainer,  especially  when  I  lose."  And 
he  spoke  truly,  for  Marchal  always  used  his  best 
efforts  to  cancel  his  indebtedness.  This  artist's 
suicide  was  attributed  to  financial  reverses.  On 
the  day  of  his  death  Dumas  exclaimed  :  "  Poor 
Marchal !  it  is  not  true  that  poverty  killed  him. 
He  knew  full  well  that  I  should  have  been  de- 
lighted to  lose  a  game  of  billiards  every  day." 

Marie  Duplessis,  or  Alphonsine  Plessis,  as  she 
was  really  named,  the  original  of  the  heroine  of  the 
"  Dame  aux  Camillas,"  died  of  consumption  in  1847 
at  the  age  of  twenty -three  years.  If  at  the  Mont- 
martre  Cemetery  you  ask  to  be  shown  the  grave  of 
the  Dame  aux  Camelias,  the  guide  will  take  you 
to  a  small,  square  tombstone  bearing  the  inscrip- 
tion "Alphonsine  Plessis."  A  wreath  of  artificial 
white  camelias,  cased  in  glass,  is  hung  upon  the 
tomb.  For  years  after  her  death  it  was  the 
fashion  for  Parisian  women  of  all  classes  to  bring 
camelias  to  her  grave.  In  time,  however,  the 
grave  was  decked  with  but  few  of  the  flowers 
loved  so  well  by  the  sleeper  below.  One  single 
person  has  never  ceased  to  pay  his  tribute  to  her 
memory,  and  this  person  is  Alexandre  Dumas. 

The  dramatization  of  the  novel  in  which  Ma- 
demoiselle Plessis  was  immortalized  has  a  history  of 
its  own.  Written  in  1849,  it  was  not  represented 
until  February  2,  1852,  though  accepted  in  suc- 
cession by  various  theatres.     The  censor's  office 


ALEXANDRE   DUMAS,  FILS.  169 

of  the  French  Republic  prohibited  its  perform- 
ance, although  Jules  Janin,  Leon  Gozlan,  and 
Emile  Augier  solemnly  vouched  for  the  morality 
of  the  piece.  It  was  not  until  the  Dukes  of  Mor- 
ny  and  Persigny  came  into  power  that  the  pro- 
hibition was  removed.  Everywhere  enthusiasti- 
cally received,  it  was  not  until  1872,  twenty  years 
after  its  first  performance,  that  it  was  admitted 
to  the  repertory  of  the  Theatre  Fran9ais.  It  was 
Madame  Doche  who  created  the  role  of  Marguerite, 
and  Dumas  thinks  that  her  rendering  has  never 
been  and  never  will  be  surpassed.  "  She  was  not 
an  interpreter,"  says  he,  "but  a  collaborator." 

Dumas  has  a  peculiar  mode  of  writing  his  plays. 
While  pondering  over  a  subject,  he  will  not  be  seen; 
but,  having  once  determined  upon  the  subject,  not 
only  IS  his  door  open  to  almost  every  one,  but  he 
himself  actually  seeks  society.  This  process  saves 
him  immense  expenditure  of  energy.  "  It  is  rare- 
ly," says  he,  "  that  I  do  not  find  some  one  playing 
my  drama.  It  is  by  picking  up  impressions  here 
and  there  that  my  work  is  done.  The  atoms  yield 
to  the  law  of  combination,  group  around  each 
other,  and  gradually  a  definite  body  is  produced." 
He  never  writes  the  skeleton  of  a  play.  His 
dramas  are  turned  fully  wrought  from  his  brain. 
Before  writing  the  words  "  Act  I.,  Scene  I.,"  the 
action  is  wholly  developed  in  his  mind.  He  then 
takes  exactly  ninety-seven  leaves  of  his  favorite 
blue  paper,  twenty  of  which  he  invariably  devotes 


170  FRENCH   MEN   OF  LETTERS. 

to  each  of  the  first  four  acts,  and  seventeen  to  the 
last,  cutting  down  and  condensing  his  work  dur- 
ing its  progress  and  at  its  close  so  as  to  keep  the 
play  within  the  assigned  limits. 

After  the  success  achieved  by  the  "Dani- 
eheffs,"  Dumas  amused  himself  in  misleading 
public  opinion  as  to  its  paternity.  The  notion 
prevailed  that  the  piece  had  been  written  by  him 
in  collaboration  with  a  Russian,  Pierre  Newski 
by  name.  For  a  long  while  afterward,  Dumas's 
house  was  constantly  besieged  by  a  host  of  au- 
thors, who  came  each  for  the  purpose  of  pro- 
posing to  him  a  similar  conjunction.  All  the 
men  of  Paris,  it  seemed,  had  turned  litterateurs. 
There  were  Russian,  Turkish,  Egyptian,  and 
Indian  plays  without  number.  Dumas  was  obliged 
to  shut  the  door  upon  every  stranger.  But  certain 
obstinate  people  were  not  so  easily  to  be  put  off,  and 
resorted  to  every  manner  of  expedient  that  might 
secure  them  an  interview  with  the  playwright.  I 
fancy,  at  this  moment,  I  see  a  litterateur  disguised 
as  a  chimney  cleaner  peep  forth  from  his  fireplace 
and  present  Monsieur  Dumas  with  a  manuscript 
— which  actually  happened. 

As  it  is  easily  perceived  in  his  "  Prefaces," 
Dumas  is  perhaps  a  greater  philosopher  than  dra- 
matist. His  merciless  logic  strikes  at  the  object 
in  view  with  the  bluntness  of  a  cannon  ball.  In 
the  mind  of  this  dramatic  author  there  are  many 
of  the  elements  of  a  Descartes  and  a  Blaise  Pas- 


ALEXANDRE  DUMAS,  FILS.  171 

cal.  "  Monsieur  Dumas,"  a  critic  says,  "  would  be 
grievously  hurt  if  he  suspected  that  he  were  re- 
garded as  a  homme  de  tMdtre  alone,  and  not  as 
a  professor  of  philosophy  also.  The  consequence 
is  that  his  pieces  are,  most  of  them,  sermons  in 
action.  It  is,  therefore,  not  surprising  to  find  that 
Dumas  thinks  no  social  problem  beneath  his  no- 
tice. That  he  would  have  something  to  say  on 
the  question  of  divorce  now  agitating  France  was 
a  foregone  conclusion.  He  has  said  it,  and  it  has 
taken  him  some  four  hundred  large  octavo  pages 
to  say  it  in." 

At  the  beginning  of  this  sketch  I  have  men- 
tioned a  small  library  adjoining  the  novelist's 
working-room.  That  library  is  his  daughter's 
study.  Visitors  may  have  frequently  noticed  the 
charming  face  of  a  little  blonde  peeping  through 
the  half -open  door  and  inquisitively  gazing  at 
them.  That  little  blonde  is  Jeannine,  the  junior 
of  the  two  girls,  now  about  eleven  years  of  age, 
and  still  called  Beb6  by  her  family,  of  which 
she  is  the  pet.  As  regards  wit,  she  is  the  worthy 
rival  of  Victor  Hugo's  little  niece. 

A  lady  visitor  recently  asked  Colette  what  kind 
of  a  husband  she  would  like  to  have.  Colette, 
who  regarded  the  question  as  impertinent,  saucily 
replied  :  "  I  shall  marry  an  idiot ;  and  the  trouble 
is  that,  some  day  or  other,  I  may  meet  a  greater 
idiot  than  my  husband,  and  then  regret  that  I 
have  been  too  hasty  in  my  choice." 


172  FRENCH   MEN  OF   LETTERS. 

"  Don't  be  alarmed,  sister,"  rejoined  Beb6, 
"  you  will  never  meet  a  greater  imbecile  than  the 
man  wbo  will  marry  you." 

Colette  is  now  fifteen  years  of  age.  She  has 
the  golden  hair  and  the  blue  eyes  of  a  Psyche. 
She  is  an  angel  of  goodness,  with  a  good  deal 
of  Parisian  coquetry  about  her.  Well  could  her 
father  introduce  her  into  society,  uttering  the 
same  words  as  Dumas  pere  when  the  latter  pre- 
sented his  son  to  his  friends. 


iJMILE  A  UGIER. 

The  lives  of  great  artists  and  distinguished 
writers  offer  to  the  curiosity  of  the  public  that 
most  enticing  literary  pabulum,  namely,  anecdotes 
in  which  personality  imparts  a  fresh  and  attractive 
feature  to  the  plainest  facts.  There  are  always 
certain  eminent  men,  however,  who  escape  the 
inquisitiveness  of  their  contemporaries.  To  this 
class  ]fimile  Augier  seems  to  belong.  In  France 
he  is  considered  the  finest  dramatist  of  our  age. 
Dumas,  Feuillet,  and  Sardou  may  be  severally  his 
superiors  in  some  special  quality  ;  but,  all  things 
considered,  it  must  be  conceded  that  he  is  the 
most  complete  and  perfect  of  the  three.  Euro- 
peans generally  are  acquainted  with  his  works,  of 
which  they  are  wont  to  speak  most  enthusiasti- 


^MILE  AUGIER.  173 

cally.  In  the  streets  of  Paris  neariy  anybody  can 
point  him  out,  as  the  Veronese  mothers  were  wont 
to  point  out  to  their  children  the  great  Florentine 
exile,  who,  as  they  said,  "  was  master  of  hell  and 
paradise."  Augier  is  known,  by  sight  at  least,  to 
every  one  ;  but  rarely  can  you  find  one  who  is  able 
to  throw  any  light  upon  his  private  life.  Were 
he  the  denizen  of  another  world,  he  could  hardly 
in  this  regard  be  less  known. 

I  had  witnessed  with  ever-increasing  admira- 
tion some  twenty  representations  of  "  Le  Fils  de 
Giboyer."  I  became  anxious,  naturally,  to  gain 
some  information  respecting  the  author's  life.  All 
that  I  could  presently  learn  was  that  he  was  a 
family  man,  and  lived  at  Croissy.  My  curiosity 
was  increased  by  the  difficulties  I  encountered  in 
my  endeavors  to  satisfy  it.  I  finally  met  him  at 
one  of  Victor  Hugo's  informal  receptions,  where 
one  may  see  the  cream  of  the  political,  literary, 
and  art  life  of  France.  The  poet-host  himself  cut 
short  my  inquiries  concerning  Augier  with  the  la- 
conic remark,  "  He  is  a  patriarch." 

Though  finely  molded,  the  head  of  £mile  Au- 
gier is  that  of  a  witty,  good-natured  bourgeois. 
He  was  born  in  1820,  but  looks  as  though  he  were 
not  yet  fifty.  His  hair,  and  his  full  curly  beard,  at 
which  his  left  hand  is  ever  tugging,  were,  when  I 
last  saw  him,  still  black.  His  forehead  is  broad 
and  intellectual.  His  whole  countenance  bespeaks 
physical  as  well  as  moral  strength.     The  dominat- 


174  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

ing  feature  is  the  nose,  which  is  of  the  most  pro- 
nounced Roman  type,  and  which  apparently  less- 
ens the  size  of  its  neighbors,  a  pair  of  small 
piercing  black  eyes  shining  with  Rabelaisian  hu- 
mor. Far  from  betraying  the  favored  child  of 
fame,  his  manners  are  still  those  of  the  clerk  of 
Monsieur  Mason,  the  celebrated  lawyer,  in  whose 
office  he  passed  his  early  youth,  before  his  poetic 
and  dramatic  talent  had  pointed  out  to  him  where 
his  destiny  lay. 

On  his  mother's  side,  Augier  is  the  grandson 
of  Pigault  Lebrun.  He  studied  at  the  College  of 
Henri  IV.  Here  he  became  the  intimate  friend 
of  the  Due  d'Aumale,  to  whom  he  afterward  acted 
as  librarian,  never  concealing  the  while  his  strong 
liberal  sympathies.  Few  young  men  have  ever 
left  college  with  a  more  useful  stock  of  learning 
than  did  Augier.  He  began  the  study  of  law  at 
the  University  of  Paris  ;  but  his  tastes  tended  to 
the  lyre  rather  than  the  bench,  and  his  family  of- 
fering no  hindrance,  he  embraced  a  literary  career. 
At  the  age  of  twenty-thi^ee  he  was  already  favor- 
ably known  as  a  poet.  When  Ponsard's  "Lu- 
crece"  was  produced,  Augier  was  twenty-four 
years  old.  Its  success  seems  greatly  to  have 
stimulated  the  talent  of  the  young  man.  Pon- 
sard  was  at  the  time  the  leader  of  that  school 
which  aimed  at  the  revival  of  classic  tragedy,  and 
fancied  itself  all-powerful  to  crush  the  new-born 
romanticism.     Augier  in   a  short   time   brought 


fiMILE  AUGIER.  175 

forth  "La  Cigue."  The  coterie,  of  which  Ponsard 
was  the  ruling  spirit,  perceiving  in  the  play  the 
tokens  of  a  superior  talent  not  inspired  by  Victor 
Hugo,  courted  the  young  author,  received  him 
with  open  arms,  and  in  a  short  time  he  became 
Ponsard's  intimate  friend.  "  La  Cigue  "  was  first 
read  by  the  Society  of  the  Theatre  Fran9ais,  and 
unanimously  rejected.  Produced  subsequently  at 
the  Odeon,  its  success  was  so  complete  as  to  elicit 
an  unprecedented  apology  from  the  theatre  which 
had  at  first  refused  it.  The  Society  of  the  Thea- 
tre Frangais  so  earnestly  besought  Augier  to  with- 
draw the  piece  from  the  Odeon,  and  place  it  in 
their  own  hands,  that  the  young  dramatist  was 
finally  constrained  to  yield  to  their  desire.  It  is 
but  fair  to  add  that  the  intrigues  of  the  Classicists 
were  not  foreign  to  the  contrition  which  marked 
the  behavior  of  the  Society  of  the  Theatre  Fran- 
9ais. 

"  La  Cigue,"  however,  only  partially  fulfilled 
the  hopes  of  the  Classicists.  It  is  true  that  the 
poet,  by  laying  the  scene  in  the  house  of  a  young 
Greek  libertine,  in  the  time  of  Pericles,  seemed  to 
have  taken  sides  against  the  Romanticists.  But 
it  was  not  difficult  to  discover  that,  under  its  clas- 
sic form,  the  piece  was  pervaded  by  a  strong  spir- 
it of  independence  and  progress.  The  Romantic 
school  readily  perceived  that  all  the  grace,  piquan- 
cy, and  imagery  of  the  play  were  in  every  sense 
original  and  unconventional,  and  accordingly  took 
12 


176  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

good  care  not  to  treat  as  an  enemy  the  admirer  of 
Ponsard.  They  divined  from  this  first  dramatic 
essay  that  Augier  would  never  become  a  mere 
pedant,  although  the  Academy  might  use  all  its 
available  means  to  emasculate  his  fresh  and  vigor- 
ous talents  ;  and,  in  consequence,  Theophile  Gau- 
tier  celebrated  his  triumph  with  as  much  loyalty 
and  ability  as  if  Augier  had  been  a  duly  proved 
member  of  his  own  phalanstery. 

The  object  of  this  sketch  not  being  to  criticise, 
I  shall  not  attempt  exhaustively  to  analyze  the 
works  of  Augier.  For  my  purpose  it  will  suffice 
to  say  that  he  is  a  humanitarian,  whose  constant 
aim  is  the  improvement  of  his  fellow  creatures. 
There  is  not  in  his  plays  a  single  idea  which  is 
not  highly  moral.  He  is  a  psychologist  of  the 
first  order.  Though  he  has  touched  upon  all  the 
important  problems  with  which  our  time  is  occu- 
pied, he  deals  more  especially  with  those  which 
affect  the  organization  of  the  family  and  the  life 
of  the  middle  classes.  The  society  which  he  most 
frequently  analyzes  is  a  peculiar  world,  which  is 
not  bourgeois  nor  yet  the  old  noblesse.  It  is  the 
frontier  upon  which  these  castes  meet ;  the  salons 
where  bankers  and  counts,  journalists  and  barons, 
intermingle  or  join  battle  ;  the  true  stage  where 
the  combat  between  honor  and  gold  is  uncompro- 
misingly portrayed.  Indeed,  we  know  not  how  a 
more  salient  feature  of  the  age  could  have  been 
hit   upon  by  any  dramatist.      This  world  with 


iSmile  AUGIER.  177 

which  he  concerns  himself  is  not  so  narrow  as 
might  at  first  sight  be  imagined.  The  same 
struggle  is  waging  in  every  sphere  of  life,  and 
the  contest  has  never  been  so  earnest  as  in  these 
times  when  all  grades  of  society  are  gravitating 
toward  a  common  point.  And  the  varied  phases 
of  this  mighty  problem  he  faces  with  an  iron 
resolve  to  hide  nothing.  With  a  pitiless  eye  he 
has  scanned  every  scandal  that  had  money  for  its 
cause  or  its  object.  He  has  looked  about  him, 
and,  seeing  that  extraordinary  beings  are  but  ex- 
ceptions, he  has  dissected  the  heart  of  the  average 
man,  laid  bare  whatever  of  good  or  bad  it  con- 
tains, and  brought  into  bold  relief  all  the  chaste 
poetry  that  hovers  around  the  family  fireside. 
His  training  in  the  midst  of  a  virtuous  family  has 
made  him  an  apostle  of  the  family  virtues.  His 
ideal  man  is  the  honest  paterfamilias.  In  a  fa- 
mous line  he  celebrates  the  apotheosis  of  the 
father : 

"Oh!  Pere  de  famille;  oh  poetel  je  t'aime." 

One  of  the  most  remarkable  incidents  in  the 
life  of  Augier  is  his  duel  with  Charles  Monselet, 
which  grew  out  of  certain  strictures  uttered  by 
the  latter  upon  "  Philiberte."  Monselet,  it  is  well 
known,  seldom  crosses  the  threshold  of  a  theatre. 
Yet  his  dramatic  criticisms  have  in  Paris  great 
weight.  To  the  just  reproaches  which  his  method 
justifies,  he,  like  Lireux,  coolly  replies  :  "  I  never 


178  FRENCH   MEN   OF   LETTERS. 

go  to  see  a  play,  you  know,  lest  it  should  influence 
my  judgment."  After  a  first  representation,  Mon- 
selet  examines  with  scrupulous  attention  all  that 
has  been  said  by  other  critics.  He  compares  the 
favorable  with  the  unfavorable,  the  black  with  the 
white,  and  by  dint  of  shrewd  eclecticism  he  often 
attains  that  impartiality  after  which  his  fellows 
strive  in  vain.  His  criticism  upon  '*  Philiberte  " 
happened  to  be  very  trenchant.  Augier  deter- 
mined to  prevent  his  humbugging  the  public,  and 
replied  in  language  every  whit  as  cutting  as  that 
used  by  his  critic,  and  insisted  uj)on  his  confessing 
that  he  had  never  seen  the  play  in  question.  Mon- 
selet  refused  absolutely,  and  a  challenge  quick- 
ly followed.  Pistols  were  the  weapons  chosen. 
Augier  is  a  splendid  shot,  and  Monselet's  priestly 
embonpoint  offered  a  very  large  target  to  his  an- 
tagonist. When  the  principals  had  arrived  at  the 
spot  selected  for  the  encounter,  Augier's  anger 
was  considerably  abated.  His  generous  instincts 
overcame  his  thirst  for  revenge,  and  he  purposely 
missed  hitting  his  man.  As  for  Monselet,  it  would 
have  been  only  by  a  prodigy  of  chance  that  he 
could  have  done  otherwise.  The  end  of  the 
affair  was  that  the  malcontents  separated  ami- 
cably, which  relation  they  have  ever  since  main- 
tained. 

Before  he  was  thirty  years  old,  Augier  had  by 
a  few  plays  attained  the  height  of  celebrity.  His 
verdicts  in  literary  matters  were  everywhere  re- 


fiMILE  AUGIER.  179 

ceived  with  the  humblest  deference.  When,  in 
1849,  the  Government  by  every  means  opposed  the 
representation  of  Dumas's  "  La  Dame  aux  Came- 
lias,"  on  account  of  its  "immorality,"  Augier 
took  sides  with  Dumas,  and  used  all  his  influence 
to  have  the  prohibition  revoked.  But,  faithful  to 
his  respect  and  love  for  the  family,  he  deemed  it 
incumbent  on  him  to  counteract  the  unwholesome 
effects  the  play  might  produce,  by  showing  that, 
though  interesting  as  an  isolated  fact,  the  case  of 
Marguerite  Gautier  would  by  generalization  be- 
come paradoxical.  Admitting  the  possibility  of 
exceptions  with  which  every  honest  heart  ought 
to  sympathize,  he  demonstrated  by  his  "Mariage 
d'Olympe "  that  to  idealize  a  courtesan  is  folly  ; 
that,  in  general,  she  will  remain  such,  no  matter 
how  wholesome  her  surroundings  after  marriage. 
This  play  may  be  considered  as  the  continuation 
of  "La  Dame  aux  Camelias,"  regarding  that  hete- 
rogeneous being  from  the  standpoint  of  the  con- 
sequences which  her  presence  would  ordinarily  pro- 
duce in  the  family.  When  Augier  read  his  play 
before  the  Society  of  the  Comedie  Fran9aise,  he 
was  requested  to  change  the  catastrophe,  which 
represents  the  husband  in  the  act  of  shooting  his 
wife,  who,  failing  to  reform,  had  rendered  family 
life  unbearable.  Such  an  issue  was  as  inexorable 
as  the  Divine  vengeance  ;  it  grew  out  of  the  fun- 
damental idea  upon  which  the  play  was  grounded. 
Augier  refused  to  make  the  alteration.     "That 


180  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

woman  is  seized  with  hydrophobia,"  he  exclaimed; 
"  I  can  not  see  why  she  should  be  dealt  with  other- 
wise than  a  dog  affected  by  the  same  disease." 
The  public  at  first  confirmed  the  judgment  of  the 
Society  ;  but,  when  the  play  was  revived,  the  spell 
cast  by  "  La  Dame  aux  Camelias "  having  then 
died  away,  Augier's  production  was  as  warmly 
applauded  as  the  famous  piece  to  which  it  was  a 
rejoinder.  Augier  never  panders  to  the  public 
taste.  Earnestly  believing  in  the  sanctity  of  his 
mission,  he  would  not  for  a  world  depart  from  that 
which  he  deems  right  and  consistent.  When  he 
writes  a  play,  he  is  wholly  oblivious  to  the  tastes 
and  caprices  of  the  public.  He  has  an  idea  ;  he 
molds  it  entirely  after  his  own  fashion.  His  in- 
timate friends  warned  him  of  certain  objections 
which  would  be  raised  against  "  Gabrielle."  "I 
am  aware  of  all  that,"  he  replied,  "  but  I  will  not 
compromise  with  my  audience.  Such  as  I  am, 
they  must  take  me,  or  not  take  me  at  all."  He 
has  generally  triumphed,  and  has  frequently  led 
the  public  to  applaud  plays  which  in  the  begin- 
ning had  been  dealt  with  as  cheap  works.  "  Ga- 
brielle," coolly  received  at  first,  was  afterward 
reckoned  one  of  the  best  pieces  of  the  French 
theatre. 

£mile  Augier  has  written  some  thirty  dramas. 
A  third  of  these  are  written  in  blank  verse,  and 
form  the  most  natural  and  yet  the  most  exquisite 
dramatic  poetry  that  French  literature  possesses. 


EMILE   AUGIER.  181 

Not  a  few  of  his  plays  are  so  thoroughly  French 
that,  in  a  foreign  dress,  they  lose  much  of  their 
original  interest.  "Le  Gendre  de  Monsieur  de 
Poirier,"  "Les  Effrontes,"  "Lions  et  Renards," 
"  La  Pierre  de  Touche,"  "  Les  Lionnes  Pauvres," 
and  "  Le  Fils  de  Giboyer,"  are  each  wonderful 
conceptions.  Dumas  does  not  hesitate  to  say  that 
the  last  is  the  finest  play  on  the  French  stage. 
Giboyer,  the  hero's  father,  coins  his  heart  to  nur- 
ture his  son.  Besides  being  an  idealization  of  pa- 
ternal and  filial  love,  the  play  mercilessly  satirizes 
the  intrigues  and  makeshifts  of  the  Clericals  and 
Legitimists  in  France.  Its  first  representation 
occurred  under  the  Second  Empire,  and  provoked 
such  a  storm  of  disapprobation  in  aristocratic  cir- 
cles that  the  piece  was  prohibited.  The  Repub- 
lican principles,  sanctioned  by  the  Revolution  as 
the  true  base  of  society,  were  never  more  bril- 
liantly and  forcibly  enunciated  than  in  "  Le  Fils 
de  Giboyer."  To  this  effort  he  mainly  owed  his 
election  to  the  French  Academy  in  1858,  to  fill 
the  seat  from  which  death  had  removed  M.  de  Sal- 
vandy. 

Augier  is  a  hard  and  conscientious  worker. 
Almost  all  his  plays  were  written  over  three  or 
four  times.  His  motto  is  "  perfection,"  and  he  ia 
never  wholly  satisfied  with  his  performances.  He 
has  a  numerous  family,  and,  for  the  most  part, 
lives  like  a  patriarch  among  his  children  and 
grandchildren  in  his   country-house  at   Croissy, 


182  FRENCH   MEN   OF   LETTERS. 

near  Paris.  His  habits  and  tastes  are  simple  : 
beyond  writing,  his  greatest  passion  would  seem 
to  be  gardening.  He  is  a  thorough  botanist  and 
agriculturist,  and  an  inspection  in  his  company  of 
his  fruit,  flower,  and  vegetable  gardens  proves 
one  of  the  greatest  pleasures  he  can  offer  to  his 
friends.  I  once  surprised  him  planting  cabbage, 
his  head  covered  with  a  large  straw  hat,  his  shoul- 
ders with  the  gray  blouse  of  a  French  laborer, 
and  his  feet  incased  in  sabots,  after  the  manner  of 
a  Breton  peasant.  I  could  not  forbear  halting  to 
contemplate  him,  and  to  speculate  upon  the  vaga- 
ries of  human  character.  To  write  a  play  like 
"  Le  Fils  de  Giboyer  "  and  to  plant  turnips  and 
cabbages  are  widely  different  occupations. 

When  in  Paris,  Augier  is  literally  besieged 
with  callers  who  represent  the  most  distinguished 
circles  of  literary  and  scientific  people  in  the  city. 
He  generally  puts  up  at  a  modest  hotel  in  the  Rue 
St.  Honor6,  near  the  old  house  of  Moli^re.  He  at- 
tends and  enjoys  festivals  and  receptions  in  great 
numbers,  the  "  Bals  Masques  de  FOpera  "  includ- 
ed. It  was  while  present  at  one  of  these  that  he 
defined  masked  balls  to  be  "  charitable  institu- 
tions for  homely  women." 

At  Croissy  he  may  frequently  be  seen  sitting 
before  the  door  of  his  house,  thinking,  and  smok- 
ing a  pipe,  the  stem  of  which  is  long  and  singular- 
ly twisted.  Jules  Sandeau,  the  early  collabora- 
teur  of  George  Sand,  has  one  like  it,  and  both 


fiMILE  AUGIEll.  183 

these  smoking  implements  are  called  by  their 
owners  "  les  pipes  de  la  collaboration,"  from  their 
being  chiefly  used  when  the  two  playwrights  work 
together  upon  some  drama.  It  occasionally  hap- 
pens that  either  puffs  his  smoke  into  the  other's 
eyes,  when  it  is  amusing  to  hear  them  quarrel  and 
accuse  each  other  of  malign  intent. 

Augier  has  a  very  sympathetic  heart.  No  one 
is  kinder  toward  young  or  unknown  authors,  or 
more  charitable  toward  struggling  litterateurs. 
He  never  refuses  to  read  a  manuscript,  and,  if  the 
production  be  at  all  worth  publication,  he  recom- 
mends it  to  the  publishers  as  warmly  as  he  can 
conscientiously.  He  once  had  an  experience  very 
like  an  incident  in  the  editorial  career  of  Murat 
Halstead.  A  young  poet  wished  to  have  a  poem 
published  in  Mr.  Halstead's  paper.  As  the  poem 
was  a  piece  of  sickening  sentimentalism,  the  edi- 
tor declined  it.  The  poet  remonstrated  as  though 
the  refusal  were  little  less  that  an  insult.  "Very 
well,"  said  Halstead,  "  since  you  insist,  I  will  pub- 
lish it ;  but  in  ten  years  from  now  you  will  regret 
that  I  ever  aided  you  to  make  a  fool  of  yourself." 
The  young  man  was  sensible  enough  to  withdraw 
his  verses,  and  a  few  years  afterward  he  thanked 
Halstead  for  teaching  him  that  poetry  and  senti- 
mentalism are  quite  different  things. 

On  another  occasion,  Augier  became  accident- 
ally aware  of  the  fact  that  a  talented  young  au- 
thor who  had  brought  a  manuscript  for  him  to 


184  FRENCH   MEN   OF   LETTERS. 

read  was  in  distress.  Augier  not  only  kindly 
took  it  upon  himself  to  find  a  publisher  for  him, 
but  also  inserted  three  bank-notes  of  one  hundred 
francs  each  between  the  leaves  of  the  manuscript, 
which  he  returned,  saying  that  he  had  taken  the 
liberty  to  make  some  corrections  on  such  and  such 
pages.  The  corrections  proved  to  be  the  bank- 
notes. The  young  author  has  since  attained  a 
high  reputation,  and  enjoys  a  yearly  income  of 
many  thousands  ;  but,  whether  he  has  paid  his 
debt  or  not,  we  should  dislike  to  state. 

Augier's  generosity  was  lately  proved  by  his 
behavior  toward  his  old  schoolmate  Deslandes,  the 
manager  of  the  "  Theatre  de  la  Renaissance."  Au- 
gier had  sent  one  of  his  last  plays,  "  Madame  Ca- 
verlet,"  to  the  Theatre  Fran9ais.  The  Society  was 
perplexed  to  know  what  to  do,  as  they  had  pre- 
viously engaged  themselves  to  play  Dumas's 
"  L'^fitrangere  "  and  other  dramas,  and  disliked  to 
tell  the  author  of  "  Gabrielle  "  that  he  must  wait. 
Augier  saw  their  dilemma,  and,  out  of  respect  to 
his  fellow  playwrights,  as  well  as  to  the  Society, 
withdrew  the  piece  under  the  plea  of  its  needing 
some  alteration.  On  his  leaving  the  theatre  with 
his  manuscript  under  his  arm,  Augier  met  Des- 
landes, and  the  conversation  fell  upon  the  con- 
dition of  the  Renaissance  Theatre.  Deslandes 
sorrowfully  hinted  at  the  poor  business  he  had 
recently  done,  and  at  his  financial  embarrass- 
ment. 


ifiMILE  AUGIER.  185 

"  Suppose  I  were  to  give  you  a  play  of  mine," 
said  Augier,  "  do  you  think  it  would  help  you  out 
of  your  difficulties  ?  " 

"  Help  me  out  !  It  would  make  my  fortune  !  " 
cried  the  manager. 

"  Then  take  it,"  replied  the  dramatist,  hand- 
ing to  him  the  manuscript  of  "  Madame  Caverlet " 
— "  take  it ;  I  make  you  a  present  of  it." 

When  Augier's  name  was  seen  in  the  an- 
nouncements of  a  third-rate  theatre,  some  of  his 
fellow  academicians  complained  that  it  lowered 
their  dignity.  "  Let  them  grumble,"  said  Augier 
to  his  informant  ;  "  Deslandes  is  making  plenty 
of  money,  and  that  is  to  me  of  more  importance 
than  the  approval  or  disapproval  of  a  few  bigoted 
people." 

Full  of  respect  and  love  for  his  art,  more  con- 
scientious, perhaps,  than  his  brother  dramatists, 
he  has  spent  thirty-five  years  in  building  up  a 
dramatic  edifice,  at  once  the  healthiest  and  the 
most  graceful  that  France  may  boast.  He  has 
placed  his  ideal  very  high.  He  perhaps  lacks  the 
superior  originality  of  those  artists  and  thinkers 
who  invent  new  forms  in  the  domain  of  art.  He 
is  not  the  high  priest  who  at  one  blow  of  his  wand 
can  lay  bare  the  springs  of  new  life  and  light,  not 
one  of  those  resolute  souls  who  put  a  whole  gen- 
eration in  commotion,  and  turn  upon  themselves 
the  hatred  and  enthusiasm  which  are  characteris- 
tic of  the  struggle  between  the  fanaticism  of  the 


186  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

past  and  that  of  the  future.  He  has  made  his 
way  slowly  and  quietly,  keeping  his  mind  always 
open  to  the  nobler  passions,  following  the  tradi- 
tions of  the  old  masters,  and  avoiding  the  excesses 
of  revolution  as  well  as  the  slavery  of  accepted 
dogmas.  I  am  aware  that  to  the  majority  Dumas 
and  Sardou  are  more  attractive,  both  on  account 
of  their  merits  and  their  faults.  Our  generation 
is  inclined  toward  excesses.  The  melodrama  and 
burlesque  suit  our  hlase  senses  better  than  the 
more  truthful  stage.  The  bitterness,  the  deep 
restlessness,  the  contradictions  of  thought  and 
feeling,  the  misanthropic  outbursts  against  social 
injustice,  and  the  mystical  effusions  which  charac- 
terize the  works  of  Dumas,  move  us  more  deeply 
than  the  calm  development  of  Augier's  dramas. 
The  feverish  movement,  the  sparkling  wit,  the 
unforeseen  resources  in  the  action,  the  violence 
and  the  refinement  of  passion  peculiar  to  our  age, 
so  delicate  yet  so  rough,  so  heroic  yet  so  timid, 
which  are  painted  in  such  a  masterly  manner  by 
Sardou,  are  not  to  be  met  with  in  Augier's  pro- 
ductions. The  latter,  although  thoroughly  a  man 
of  the  nineteenth  century,  has  many  traits  in  com- 
mon with  the  writers  of  classic  times.  His  simple 
and  manly  style  moves  calmly  on,  always  grace- 
ful and  correct.  His  knowledge  of  dramatic  com- 
position, the  logic  and  precision  of  his  concep- 
tions, the  care  which  he  bestows  upon  the  analy- 
sis of  character,  his  high  morals,  his  disdain  for 


OCTAVE  FEUILLET.  187 

clap-trap  and  sensational  effects,  may  not  awake 
the  enthusiasm  of  the  multitude,  but  will  always 
command  the  admiration  of  taste  and  intellect. 


OCTAVE  FEUILLET. 

I  WAS  a  little  over  twenty  years  of  age,  but 
that  epoch,  rose-tinged  for  most  men,  had  for  me 
assumed  the  aspect  of  funereal  woe.  I  had  re- 
cently buried  my  dearest  friend.  I  was  aimlessly 
wandering  through  France  and  Switzerland  in 
search  of  the  sun  and  the  cheerfulness  that  had 
hitherto  brightened  my  youth.  Low-spirited, 
broken-hearted,  I  had  arrived  at  the  village  of 
Divonne,  on  the  extreme  frontier  between  the 
two  countries.  With  my  dear  friend  I  had  there 
passed  a  few  days,  the  memory  of  which  was 
fresh  in  my  mind.  With  her  I  had  climbed  the 
mountain  to  its  summit,  and,  from  Nion,  I  had 
contemplated  the  Lake  of  Geneva,  a  sight  never 
to  be  forgotten.  With  her  I  had  visited  the  fa- 
mous chateau  of  Prangins,  the  summer  residence 
of  Prince  Jerome  Bonaparte,  and  that  of  Liers, 
whose  charms  are  indicated  by  saying  that  it  be- 
longs to  the  Rothschild  family.  Divonne  is  a 
watering-place,  celebrated  for  its  ice-cold  springs 
which  come  from  the  mountain,  and  for  its  shower- 
bath  establishments,  which  are  well  attended  by 


188  FRENCH   MEN   OF  LETTERS. 

quiet,  fashionable,  and  aristocratic  people.  The 
scenery  is  most  picturesque,  and  the  air  balsamic. 
However  weak  or  suffering  one  who  visits  Di- 
vonne  may  be,  he  is  sure  to  leave  it  with  vigorous 
health  and  strength  and  renewed  good  spirits. 

There  is  a  bitter  pleasure  in  revisiting  the 
spots  where  we  have  been  happy.  Obeying  the 
mysterious  impulse  which  prompts  sorrow  to  seek 
seclusion,  I  had  determined  to  remain  a  few  days 
at  Divonne  and  visit  alone  the  places  which  I  had 
previously  visited  with  my  friend.  As  they  are 
wont  to  do,  many  people  were  walking  rapidly  up 
and  down  in  front  of  the  hotel,  in  order  to  hasten 
a  reaction  after  the  bath  that  had  almost  frozen 
them.  Seated  beneath  a  huge  poplar  I  noticed  a 
gentleman  in  the  prime  of  manhood,  who  was  be- 
ing made  the  object  of  marked  courtesy  and  def- 
erential consideration  by  three  of  the  most  aristo- 
cratic ladies  of  Paris — Madame  de  Pourtales,  the 
Princess  de  Sagan,  and  the  Duchess  de  Ludre. 
Place  in  a  group  of  women  a  man  who  has  writ- 
ten about  them,  and  he  may  be  recognized  by  their 
manner  toward  him.  I  immediately  suspected 
that  the  man  before  me  was  an  author ;  perhaps 
a  poet,  who  had  in  some  way  or  other  celebrated 
the  charms  or  pictured  the  frailties  of  women. 
My  curiosity  was  heightened  by  his  noble  bearing, 
the  simplicity  and  elegance  of  his  attire,  the  regu- 
larity of  his  features,  and  the  beauty  of  his  eyes. 
His  raven  black  beard   was   trimmed   after  the 


OCTAVE  FEUILLET.  189 

fashion  of  Henri  IV.  ;  his  long,  curly  hair  fell 
beneath  a  narrow-brimmed  hat,  such  as  the  Span- 
ish toreros  wear.  He  was  attired  in  a  brown-and- 
gray  walking  suit  ;  but  his  demeanor  was  that  of 
a  man  in  evening  dress,  not  in  the  country,  under 
a  poplar-tree,  but  in  an  aristocratic  salon. 

At  the  moment  I  was  standing  on  the  balcony 
of  the  hotel  with  a  young  and  sympathetic  Alsa- 
tian, who  had  been  my  neighbor  at  breakfast. 
Similarity  of  age  had  at  onc^  rendered  us  almost 
friends.  Observing  that  my  attention  was  drawn 
toward  the  gentleman  surrounded  by  the  three 
ladies,  he  asked : 

"Would  you  like  to  be  introduced  to  my 
uncle?" 

"  Your  uncle  ?    Who  is  he  ?  " 

"  Why,  the  gentleman  you  are  looking  at,  and 
who  seems  to  puzzle  you  so — my  uncle.  Octave 
Feuillet." 

I  was  almost  startled  by  the  announcement. 
It  was  a  singular  coincidence,  for,  before  leaving 
for  Divonne,  I  had  bought  at  Geneva  Feuillet's 
"  Julie  de  TreccBur,"  to  re-read  it  during  the  trip. 

I  naturally  hastened  to  profit  by  my  compan- 
ion's proposition.  Who  would  not  be  delighted  to 
make  the  acquaintance  of  the  author  of  "  Sabine  " 
and  the  "  Romance  of  a  Poor  Young  Man "  ? 
Feuillet,  after  a  courteous  salutation,  separated 
from  the  ladies,  and,  taking  my  arm,  thus  ad- 
dressed me  :  "  I  well  remember  having  seen  you 


190  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

here  two  years  ago  with  the  prettiest  gazelle  that 
ever  climbed  these  mountains.  Do  you  know,  she 
came  near  suggesting  to  me  the  subject  for  a 
novel  ?    What  has  become  of  her  ?  " 

"  She  is  dead  ! " 

A  long  pause  ensued.  He  appeared  saddened 
as  though  with  some  personal  grief,  and  for  some 
time  he  seemed  to  have  nothing  to  say.  Finally, 
he  spoke  of  art  and  Italy  in  the  charming  way 
peculiar  to  a  Frenchman  and  a  poet ;  but  his 
thoughts  evidently  were  only  partially  given  to 
the  subject  of  our  conversation.  They  were  fol- 
lowing my  own,  through  which  still  echoed  the 
fatal  word  "  Dead  !  "  I  noticed  that  he  repeated- 
ly knit  his  brows,  as  if  to  overcome  some  emotion. 
He  grew  restless  and  impatient,  and  abruptly  held 
his  hand  out  to  me  as  if  about  to  take  leave  of 
me.     "  Courage  !  "  said  he,  shaking  my  hand. 

"  I  should  easily  have  courage,  could  I  per- 
suade myself  that  I  shall  see  her  again." 

"  Do  you  not  believe  in  the  immortality  of  the 
soul  ? "  he  asked,  halting,  as  if  with  the  view  of 
destroying  in  me  any  skeptical  tendency. 

I  dared  not  reply,  save  by  a  shrug  of  the 
shoulders. 

"I  shall  not  give  you  a  lecture  on  philoso- 
phy, "  he  continued  ;  "  but  can  you  not  see  how 
absurd  your  materialistic  doctrine  is  ?  Material- 
ism can  not  stand  save  that  the  eternity  of  matter 
be  placed  as  its  foothold.     Suppose  that  thought 


OCTAVE  FEUILLET.  191 

and  feeling  are  but  the  offspring  of  matter,  that 
they  are  produced  by  friction,  like  light  from  a 
match,  you  must  concede  that  the  thinking  mat- 
ter is  undoubtedly  of  a  more  refined  quality 
than  any  other.  Call  it  soul  or  what  you  will, 
that  privileged  something  in  our  being  which  is 
gifted  with  these  wonderful  faculties  can  not  logi- 
cally meet  with  a  fate  worse  than  inferior  mat- 
ter." 

"  A  burned  match  remains.  Monsieur  Feuillet," 
I  replied,  "  but  the  light  is  gone  for  ever." 

"  No — not  for  ever.  To  our  eyes  it  is  lost ;  but 
it  lives  in  the  air,  modified,  transformed,  becom- 
ing a  part  of  the  infinite,  and  divided  among  a 
million  of  beings  of  the  most  varied  nature." 

"  Then  I  am  right.  I  shall  not  survive  as  an 
individual  being,  and  can  not  again  see  my  friend's 
spirit  in  all  its  integrity." 

"  I  see  you  are  a  better  logician  than  philoso- 
pher. I  am  tired  now,"  he  said,  passing  his  hand 
over  his  forehead.  "  Come  and  see  me  soon,  and 
we  will  resume  the  discussion.  I  shall  be  happy 
if  I  can  instill  into  your  heart  some  of  my  faith 
in  eternity.  You  can  not  imagine  how  many 
griefs  are  soothed  by  the  idea  that  points  to  the 
dawning  of  a  beautiful  day  after  a  dark  night — 
ay,  as  the  very  consequence  of  it ;  which  prom- 
ises happiness  as  the  offspring  of  griefs,  and  turns 
sorrow  into  hope.  Oh,  do  try  to  believe  in  an 
after  life  ! " 

13 


192  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

During  the  foregoing  conversation  his  atten- 
tion seemed  to  be  divided,  and  every  now  and  then 
he  would  knit  his  brows,  as  though  he  woidd  es- 
cape some  unpleasant  thought. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  my  uncle  ?  "  asked 
my  companion,  whom  I  immediately  rejoined. 

"What  shall  I  say — that  he  is  as  good  and 
kind-hearted  as  he  is  great  ?  that  he  tried  to  make 
himself  small,  so  that  I  might  not  feel  my  own  in- 
feriority? There  is,  at  times,  something  in  his 
expression  that  it  has  almost  pained  me  to  see. 
His  frown  is  like  that  of  a  sufferer." 

His  nephew  then  told  me  that  Feuillet  was  fa- 
tigued by  unremitting  work  ;  that  he  was  ever  in 
communion  with  the  personages  of  his  dramas  and 
novels,  and  that  this  constant  strain  on  his  faculties 
was  the  cause  of  the  peculiarity  which  I  had  noted. 
His  physician  has  forbidden  him  to  think  for  a  long 
time  on  the  same  subject  ;  hence  the  jerks  and 
sudden  interruptions  in  his  conversation.  His 
health  is  far  from  being  as  strong  as  his  frame 
would  indicate.  As  Dumas  is  yearly  obliged  to 
repair  to  La  Bourboule,  to  restore  his  overworked 
constitution  by  arsenical  treatment,  so  Feuillet  is 
compelled  to  pass  the  summers  in  great  part  at 
Divonne,  to  improve  his  health  by  shower-baths  of 
the  wholesome  ferruginous  water  of  that  locality. 
Every  morning  he  takes  a  long  walk  up  the  moun- 
tain side  to  a  spot  where  he  can  contemplate  for 
hours  the  beautiful  scenery  about  him,  which  he 


OCTAVE  FEUILLET.  193 

delights  to  people  with  the  creatures  of  his  imag- 
ination. It  was  while  sitting  on  the  ridge  of  a 
dreadfully  beautiful  precipice  that  he  conceived 
the  idea  of  writing  his  "  Julie  de  Trecoeur,"  which, 
in  dramatic  form,  has  made  the  tour  of  all  the  prin- 
cipal cities  of  Europe  and  America  under  the  name 
of  the  "  Sphynx."  A  trifling  circumstance  some- 
times suggests  to  Feuillet,  as  it  might  to  any  great 
man,  the  theme  for  a  work  which  challenges  ob- 
livion. In  imagination  he  saw  a  woman  on  horse- 
back plunge  into  a  ravine — a  woman  worthy  of 
the  landscape — and  the  events  of  his  romance 
naturally  grouped  around  this  act. 

This  precipice  has  remained  a  favorite  resort 
of  the  author.  One  morning  I  found  him  there, 
and,  after  telling  me  of  the  origin  of  "  Julie  de 
Trecoeur,"  as  above  described,  he  reverted  to  my 
late  friend.  "I  saw  you  here  once  before,"  said 
he  ;  "I  was  seated  on  that  rock  below.  I  saw  that 
haughty  beauty — she  could  not  have  been  more 
than  eighteen — proudly  refusing  your  aid  when 
climbing  from  rock  to  rock,  robust  as  a  cedar  of 
the  mountain,  fresh  and  graceful  as  a  lily  of  the 
valley.  I  saw  her  on  reaching  the  summit  stretch 
out  her  arms  as  though  she  had  been  irresistibly 
attracted  toward  the  ravine,  while  her  long  light 
hair  floated  over  her  shoulders  at  the  mercy  of 
the  wind.  I  felt  that  my  critics  were  wrong,  and 
that  the  sad  end  of  my  Julie  was  consistent  with 
human  nature." 


194  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

I  have  not  related  these  particulars  to  bring 
into  relief  the  personality  of  one  who  was  dear  to 
me  ;  but  because  they  seem  to  me  to  illustrate,  in 
some  measure,  a  part  of  the  character  of  the  sub- 
ject of  this  sketch. 

During  my  stay  at  Divonne,  I  had  the  good 
fortune  to  meet  the  great  dramatist  four  or  five 
times  at  his  own  house.  He  lived  in  a  pretty  little 
cottage  with  his  nephew,  who  was  also  his  secre- 
tary, and  his  wife,  who  is  his  conjugal  misery. 
She  is  talented  and  good-natured  enough,  but  has 
never  furnished  her  husband  with  a  character  for 
one  of  his  plays  or  romances.  She  is  too  homely 
to  satisfy  the  wants  of  a  heart  so  enamored  as 
Feuillet's  of  ideal  beauty.  She  seldom  leaves  him. 
She  impressed  me  with  the  idea  of  a  parasite  feed- 
ing upon  a  goodly  tree.  At  the  Casino,  Feuillet 
was  in  his  element — among  the  charming  women 
of  the  aristocracy  who  are,  in  their  turn,  always 
eager  to  enjoy  his  conversation.  He  was  the  lion 
at  Divonne.  Every  lady  was  anxious  to  gather  a 
stray  hon-mot  or  sentimental  gem  from  his  bril- 
liant chats.  !N'o  person  ever  reminded  me  so  for- 
cibly of  Tasso  at  the  Court  of  Ferrara. 

Octave  Feuillet  was  born  at  St.  Lo,  in  the  De- 
partment of  La  Manche,  and,  though  he  looks  much 
younger,  he  is  now  sixty-eight  years  of  age.  His 
studies  were  pursued  at  the  College  Louis  le  Grand, 
which  he  left  with  the  title  of  "  Laureate  Perpetu- 
el,"  the  highest  honor  conferred  by  that  institution. 


OCTAVE  FEUILLET.  195 

As  he  was  the  son  of  a  Government  official  in  good 
circumstances,  he  could  afford  to  return  home  after 
his  graduation  and  continue  his  studies,  instead  of 
rashly  undertaking  to  make  a  living  by  writing. 
For  several  years  he  patiently  studied,  until  he 
felt  sure  that  he  possessed  the  key  to  all  literatures, 
ancient  as  well  as  modern,  and  the  secret  of  the 
style  of  every  celebrated  author.  His  classical  at- 
tainments are  perhaps  superior  even  to  those  of 
Augier.  The  consequence  of  this  severe  training 
was  that  his  debut  as  a  writer  was  a  remarkable 
triumph.  Naturally  modest  and  reserved,  he  con- 
cealed himself,  although  in  his  thirty-third  year, 
under  the  cover  of  a  nom-de-plume.  His  first 
work  was  a  novel,  entitled  "  The  Romance  of  a 
Great  Old  Man,"  which  appeared  in  the  feuilletons 
of  "  Le  National."  In  the  following  year  he  was 
engaged  by  Buloz  as  a  permanent  contributor  to 
the  "  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes."  All  the  French 
newspapers  sought  the  honor  of  publishing  some- 
thing from  his  pen — ^tales,  sketches,  anything  he 
would  give  them.  The  publishers  of  Paris  disput- 
ed for  the  privilege  of  giving  his  books  to  the 
world.  Translations  of  his  productions  quickly 
appeared  in  all  the  languages  of  Europe.  The 
most  authoritative  critics  of  Germany  and  Italy 
pronounced  him  a  star  of  the  first  magnitude  in 
the  literary  firmament,  whose  light  was  constant- 
ly increasing  in  brilliancy.  His  books  are  each  a 
masterpiece.    Mirecourt,  a  man  by  no  means  prod- 


196  FRENCH   MEN   OF  LETTERS. 

igal  of  praise,  has  gone  so  far  as  to  say  that  Feuil- 
let's  works  will  be  read  with  avidity  by  our  latest 
descendants,  when  the  volumes  of  the  Sues,  the 
Dumas,  and  the  Sands  will  have  long  been  forgot- 
ten. This  pure  and  true  author,  so  full  of  delicate 
feeling,  he  calls  the  counterpoise  of  all  his  contem- 
poraries in  the  same  field.  He  is  indeed  the  only 
writer  of  whom  George  Sand  was  ever  jealous. 
He  had  less  trouble,  perhaps,  than  any  other  author 
in  obtaining  a  seat  in  the  French  Academy  ;  the 
honor  was  almost  offered  to  him.  "  He  was  carried 
thither,"  says  one  writer,  "  by  the  voice  of  public 
admiration."  His  colleagues,  in  1864,  appointed 
him  Chancellor  of  the  Academy,  an  office  which 
should  be  understood  to  compliment  the  recipient 
rather  than  to  impose  duties  upon  him. 

Feuillet  lives  a  most  intellectual  life.  He  is 
constantly  employed  upon  the  improvement  of  his 
works,  which  rarely  in  his  opinion  come  up  to  the 
standard  of  his  ideal.  He  makes  no  effort  to  at- 
tract public  attention,  heartily  detesting  the  idea 
of  advertising  one's  self.  Being  at  one  time  more 
than  usually  dissatisfied  with  a  story  which  his 
publishers  pronounced  simply  admirable,  he  could 
scarcely  be  induced  to  have  it  issued  under  his 
name.  He  could  never  be  persuaded  to  witness 
the  first  performance  of  any  of  his  plays.  I  have 
been  told  that  when  "Montjoie"  was  acted,  the 
enthusiasm  of  the  audience  knowing  no  bounds, 
the  manager  of  the  theatre  sent  for  him,  saying 


OCTAVE  FEUILLET.  197 

that  tlie  people  would  not  quit  the  building  with- 
out seeing  the  author.  Feuillet  replied  that  should 
they  remain  all  night  he  would  pay  for  the  gas  ; 
but  no  entreaties  could  move  him  to  accede  to 
their  wishes,  and  next  morning  he  left  Paris.  His 
first  dramatic  effort  was  "Le  Bourgeois  de 
Rome "  ;  but  the  comedians  who  were  intrusted 
with  the  acting  were  so  far  below  the  level  of  the 
play  that  it  met  with  little  or  no  success.  He  ex- 
perienced so  much  trouble  with  manager  and  ac- 
tors that  he  became  disgusted,  and  resolved  never 
again  to  become  the  dupe  of  theatrical  sharks.  He 
published  his  second  and  third  plays  in  the  "  Re- 
vue des  Deux  Mondes."  Hardly  had  his  come- 
dies "  La  Crise  "  and  "  Le  Pour  et  le  Contre  "  been 
printed,  when  the  Parisian  theatres  began  to  con- 
tend for  the  honor  of  representing  them.  The 
Gymnase  won  the  preference  (1854)  at  the  au- 
thor's own  terms.  The  following  year  La  Come- 
die  Fran9aise  obtained  from  him  "  Peril  en  la  De- 
meure."  Since  then  the  author  of  the  "  Sphynx  " 
has  had  no  other  trouble  than  the  embarrassment 
which  attends  a  selection  from  the  various  the- 
atres of  Paris  for  the  purpose  of  having  his  drama 
produced.  There  has  been  a  time  when  the  three 
leading  theatres  of  Paris  temporarily  presented 
each  a  different  play  of  Feuillet's. 

During  the  Second  Empire,  Feuillet  was  ap- 
pointed romancer  to  the  Empress,  a  fact  which 
speaks  volumes  in  his   praise,  as  he  never  had 


198  FRENCH   MEN   OF  LETTERS. 

made  any  concessions  at  variance  with  his  avowed 
liberalism.  The  late  King  George  of  Hanover 
selected  him  as  his  reader,  and  the  afflicted  mon- 
arch was  wont  to  say  that  he  was  never  so  uncon- 
scious of  his  blindness  and  troubles  as  when  he 
listened  to  the  sympathetic  voice  of  the  distin- 
guished Frenchman.  The  throneless  King  pre- 
ferred Feuillet's  reading  to  the  acting  at  the 
Com^die  Fran9aise. 

Feuillet  lives;  most  of  his  time,  at  St.  Lo  and 
in  the  country.  He  takes  but  short  trips  to  Paris, 
when  he  usually  puts  up  at  the  modest  "  Hotel  de 
la  Rue  de  Rivoli."  He  takes  apartments  on  the 
first  floor,  but  hires  also  a  room  on  the  top  story, 
which  he  uses  as  a  study.  In  the  city  more  than 
in  the  country,  his  imagination,  in  order  to  be 
free,  must  have  plenty  of  air  and  a  broad  view  of 
the  sky.  It  was  in  such  a  lodging  that  he  wrote 
the  "  Romance  of  a  Poor  Young  Man."  How- 
ever strange  it  may  appear,  the  character  which 
in  the  writing  of  this  play  gave  him  most  trouble 
was  that  of  the  old  sea-captain,  who  has  not  more 
than  twenty  words  to  say. 

An  anecdote  will  perhaps  most  fittingly  con- 
clude this  sketch.  Octave  Feuillet  one  day  re- 
ceived from  an  unknown  woman  a  letter  in  the 
following  strain  :  "  Sir,  if  you  do  not  send  me 
fifty  francs  to-day,  I  shall  kill  myself."  Feuillet 
did  not  at  the  time  happen  to  have  the  amount  in 
ready  money.     He  called  therefore  upon  an  inti- 


VICTORIEN  SARDOU.  199 

mate  friend  who  lived  near  by,  borrowed  fifty- 
francs,  and  immediately  sent  the  sum  to  his 
strange  correspondent.  As  a  curiosity,  the  letter 
was  afterward  shown  to  his  wife. 

"  You  are  a  goose  !  "  said  she  to  the  novelist ; 
"  the  woman  is  a  fraud,  and  you  should  have  sent 
her  nothing." 

"I  thought  so,  too,"  replied  Feuillet,  "but  I 
had  rather  be  duped  a  hundred  times  than  to  re- 
fuse ;  for,  you  know,  the  story  of  her  misery  may 
not  have  been  a  falsehood." 


VICTORIEN  SARDOU. 

Few  have  been  privileged  to  produce  such  ef- 
fective works  of  dramatic  art  as  Sardou.  Critics 
may  say  that  he  is  not  very  original,  that  his 
psychological  studies  are  not  deep,  that  his  char- 
acters are  frequently  vulgar  and  overdrawn.  But 
they  must  withal  admit  that  he  is  gifted  with  a 
genuine  dramatic  talent.  No  man  can  for  twenty 
years  command  the  stage  unless  he  possess  real 
merit.  "  Dora  "  and  his  last  performance  "  Dan- 
iel Rochat"  are  far  from  proving  that  he  will 
soon  yield  his  place  to  other  dramatists.  His 
career  has  been  almost  a  continued  success.  His 
plays  have  been  translated  into  all  languages  and 
everywhere  enthusiastically  received.    Within  a 


200  FRENCH   MEN   OF  LETTERS. 

comparatively  recent  period  the  "Bourgeois  de 
Pont  d'Arcy  "  was  simultaneously  represented  at 
St.  Petersburg,  Vienna,  New  York,  and  the  prin- 
cipal cities  of  France  and  Italy.  With  Americans 
he  is  a  greater  favorite  than  any  of  his  contem- 
porary playwrights  in  France,  not  excepting  Du- 
mas, Augier,  and  Feuillet. 

To  what  qualities  does  he  owe  his  success  ? 
Chiefly,  I  think,  to  his  knowledge  of  the  public 
wants,  and  the  fine  and  supple  intelligence  with 
which  he  responds  to  them  ;  to  the  tact,  in  other 
words,  with  which  he  identifies  himself  with  pop- 
ular tastes.  He  full  well  knows  that  the  public 
do  not  wish  to  be  shocked  at  ideas  largely  at  va- 
riance with  their  own ;  and  he,  accordingly,  does 
not  impose  upon  them  any  paradoxes  of  his  mak- 
ing. He  is  aware  that  the  theatre  is  to  be  a  play- 
ful representation  of  human  life  ;  that  the  specta- 
tor enjoys  illusion,  provided  he  is  not  the  dupe 
thereof.  The  latter  seeks  emotion — does  not  even 
object  to  shedding  tears — ^but  does  not  like  whol- 
ly to  forget  that  all  he  beholds  is  actually  un- 
real. He  will  have,  as  it  were,  a  free  retreat  to 
realize  that  all  is  not  tragedy  in  this  world.  Were 
he  questioned,  he  would  say  that  he  wishes  to  be 
amused,  moved,  consoled,  and  to  leave  the  theatre 
without  disagreeable  reflections.  Sardou  happily 
fulfills  these  requisitions,  amusing  sufficiently, 
moving  powerfully  for  a  short  time,  and,  by  an 
unexpected  pleasant  dinoiXment^  sending  the  spec- 


VICTORIEN  SARDOU.  201 

tator  away  at  the  close  in  a  genial  frame  of  mind. 
In  a  conversation  which  the  writer  once  enjoyed 
with  him,  Sardou  fully  accounted  for  his  success. 
"  I  am  an  eclectic  in  playwriting,"  said  he.  "  I 
have  borrowed  my  resources  from  every  style  that 
is  consistent  with  our  age.  My  method  resembles 
one  of  those  chimeras,  in  creating  which  the  old 
poets  amused  themselves — those  chimeras  which 
have  the  face  of  a  woman,  the  wings  of  an  eagle, 
the  body  of  a  lion,  and  the  tail  of  a  serpent.  I 
take  a  good  deal  of  comedy,  a  dramatic  scene 
after  the  manner  of  Dumas,  a  conclusion  like 
that  of  a  sentimental  vaudeville,  and  the  trick  is 
done." 

When  young,  Victorien  Sardou  in  an  astonish- 
ing degree  resembled  Napoleon  I.  His  hair,  how- 
ever, which  falls  upon  his  shoulder,  now  gives 
him  the  appearance  of  an  aristocratic  clergyman. 
His  face  is  extremely  mobile.  His  mouth  sug- 
gests infinite  wit  and  humor.  His  eyes,  fiery  and 
satirical,  seem  constantly  to  search  the  heart  of 
the  beholder.  For  fear  of  cold  draughts,  he  al- 
ways wears  a  traditional  coat  of  chestnut  color, 
the  collar  of  which  is  always  turned  up,  and  which 
is  in  its  way  quite  as  famous  as  the  overcoat  of 
Mr.  Greeley.  He  now  lives  at  Marly,  in  an  old 
historic  chateau,  which  he  purchased  out  of  the 
profits  accruing  from  "  La  Famille  Benoiton,"  and 
here  he  works,  "  sewing  together "  the  scenes  of 
modern  life  which  compose  his  dramas.     I  pur- 


202  FRENCH   MEN  OF   LETTERS. 

posely  say  sewing  together,  because  strict  unity  is 
not  a  feature  of  Sardou's  plays.  He  constructs 
his  plays,  in  fact,  with  the  purpose  of  developing 
a  capital  scene,  before  which  the  drama  can  not 
be  said  to  exist,  and  after  which  it  must  be  re- 
garded as  over.  The  first  two  or  three  acts  are 
in  fact  nothing  but  a  heap  of  incidents  which  hide 
the  principal  action,  and  which  may  possibly  lead 
to  its  evolution,  but  which  have  no  strict  connec- 
tion with  it.  He  generally  prefers  the  tortuous 
path  of  the  labyrinth,  and  seems  to  detest  any 
direct  progression  to  a  denollment 

Sardou  is  wonderfully  popular,  knowing  and 
known  by  everybody.  He  is  the  Banquo's  ghost 
of  antiquarians  and  bric-a-brac  dealers.  His  ar- 
chaeological learning  is  simply  astonishing,  and  is 
much  feared,  as  he  often  enjoys  himself  among  the 
class  of  people  mentioned  by  destroying  their  il- 
lusions respecting  alleged  curios  and  antiquities 
for  which  fancy  prices  have  been  paid.  In  1873, 
when  he  produced  at  the  Theatre  des  Yarietes  his 
play  "Les  Merveilleuses,"  his  knowledge  of  old 
costumes  and  manners  was  most  useful  to  him, 
and  never,  indeed,  was  a  drama  produced  with  such 
fidelity  to  history.  For  his  "  Patrie,"  if  I  remem- 
ber aright,  he  pushed  his  fanaticism  for  historical 
truth  to  the  extreme  of  taking  a  trip  to  Siena, 
Italy,  where  is  laid  the  scene  of  the  play.  Had 
he  to  write  a  nihilistic  drama,  he  would  in  all 
probability  take  a  trip  to  Siberia. 


VICTORIEN  SARDOU.  203 

One  should  see  Sardou  at  work.  This  nervous 
little  man,  who  perpetually  complains  of  having  a 
cold,  from  the  moment  he  has  determined  upon  a 
subject  is  no  longer  master  of  himself.  He  not 
only  writes  his  plays,  but  performs  them  in  his 
room  with  an  enthusiasm  and  precision  worthy 
the  envy  of  many  a  great  actor.  At  the  rehearsals 
his  appearance  is  itself  a  comedy.  It  is  generally 
in  winter  that  his  plays  are  performed,  as  he  de- 
tests having  them  represented  in  summer.  He 
comes  on  the  stage  generally  in  an  immense  over- 
coat, as  a  matter  of  course  of  chestnut  color,  cov- 
ered to  his  eyes  by  a  huge  white  muffler,  and  a 
heavy  traveling  rug  on  his  arm.  He  seats  himself, 
and  envelops  his  limbs  in  the  latter.  One  would 
fancy  him  an  invalid  unable  to  stir  from  his  chair, 
to  whom  the  flight  of  a  fly  is  a  matter  of  vexation. 
But,  so  soon  as  the  rehearsal  begins,  he  forgets 
his  cold,  throws  off  hissuperfluous  clothing,  and 
springs  to  his  feet  with  the  agility  of  a  clown. 
When  a  performer  does  not  suit  him,  he  will  shout, 
"  Not  that  way  !  not  that  way  ! "  and,  taking  the 
actor's  place,  will  himself  impersonate  the  role  in  a 
manner  truly  astonishing.  He  frankly  forewarns 
the  actors  that  he  is  going  to  be  rough,  that  he  will 
tolerate  no  nonsense,  and  always  keeps  his  word. 
If,  as  is  generally  the  case,  the  play  reaches  its 
one  hundredth  night,  he  then  begins  to  be  ex- 
tremely charming  to  all  of  them.  After  the  per- 
formance, he  provides  them  with  a  stage  supper 


204  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

such  as  the  famous  Brebant  knows  how  to  serve. 
These  banquets  are  the  most  enjoyable  I  have 
ever  witnessed.  Sardou  generally  answers  the 
poetical  congratulations  addressed  to  him  by  an 
improvised  speech  of  the  most  humorous  charac- 
ter, which  is  to  his  play  what  the  preface  is  to 
that  of  Dumas.  Were  not  his  plays  sufficient  to 
w^arrant  his  wit,  the  following  anecdotes  would 
dispel  all  doubts  : 

He  was  once  invited  to  dinner  by  a  friend  who 
was  a  banker.  At  the  appointed  hour,  Sardou 
failed  to  appear.  The  company  waited  half  an 
hour,  three  quarters,  and  finally,  yielding  to  their 
appetites,  sat  down  without  him.  He  entered  at 
last  when  the  dinner  was  half  completed.  The 
host,  quite  vexed,  asked  whether  he  took  his  house 
for  a  hotel.  "  By  no  means,"  cried  Sardou,  calm- 
ly seating  himseK  ;  "  I  should  not  in  that  case  be 
at  this  table."  "  Why  so  ?  "  "  Because  I  never 
accept  invitations  from  hotel-keepers." 

On  one  occasion  a  terrible  storm  had  flooded 
certain  streets  of  Paris,  and  rendered  the  crossings 
almost  impassable.  Sardou  saw  a  lady  standing 
disconsolately  at  a  corner,  evidently  at  a  loss  how 
to  reach  the  other  side.  The  playwright  quietly 
lifted  her  in  his  arms  and  triumphantly  transport- 
ed her  to  the  (as  he  thought)  desired  goal. 

"  You  are  an  impudent  fellow  !  "  said  the  lady, 
in  acknowledgment  of  her  thanks. 

Sardou,  who  had  expected  something  differ- 


VICTORIEN  SARDOU.  205 

ent,  stared  at  her  for  a  moment,  took  her  again  in 
his  arms,  recrossed,  and  silently  deposited  the  lady 
in  her  former  position.  This  anecdote  has  been 
related  of  Rocqueplan,  but  I  have  it  from  the 
most  legitimate  sources  that  Sardou  was  the  real 
hero. 

Sardou  looks  much  older  than  he  actually  is. 
He  was  bora  at  Paris  in  1831.  His  father,  An- 
toine-Leandre  Sardou,  was  a  distinguished  lexi- 
cographer and  philologist  from  Cannet,  on  the 
Mediterranean  Sea.  Victorien  at  first  resolved 
to  become  a  physician,  but,  his  moderate  financial 
resources  precluding  the  continuation  of  his  stu- 
dies, he  taught  mathematics,  history,  literature — 
anything — for  a  living.  Later  on  he  addressed 
himself  to  writing,  and  for  nominal  remuneration 
contributed  articles,  as  if  it  were  by  the  yard,  to 
periodicals  and  encyclopaedias,  and,  when  he  had 
earned  his  bread  for  the  day,  he  devoted  the  rest 
of  his  time  to  favorite  studies.  The  earnestness 
with  which  he  worked  bordered  upon  mania.  A 
mysterious  instinct  attracted  him  toward  the  thea- 
tre ;  but  he  had  no  less  ambition  to  become  a  great 
savant  than  a  great  playwright.  History  and  phy- 
siology occupied  a  large  share  of  his  attention,  and 
concerning  these  subjects  he  collected  enormous 
volumes  of  notes,  which  may  some  time,  if  pub- 
lished, reveal  him  in  a  new  light  worthy  of  the 
laurels  he  has  won  in  another  domain.  One  of  his 
passions  was  to  hunt  second-hand  book-shops  and 


206  FRENCH   MEN   OF  LETTERS. 

discover  the  unknown  treasures  in  which  such 
places  abound,  although  the  pursuit  beset  his  path 
with  many  pangs,  for  his  empty  purse  did  not 
bear  with  his  satisfying  his  laudable  craving.  In 
his  youth  Sardou  was  a  fervent  believer  in  the 
doctrines  of  animal  magnetism  and  spiritualism — 
a  trait  of  his  which  has  not  yet  wholly  disappeared 
in  spite  of  the  antagonism  of  his  skeptical  philoso- 
phy. In  connection  with  this  tendency  the  Paris 
correspondent  for  the  "Whitehall  Review"  re- 
lates the  following  incident,  which  he  claims  to 
have  often  heard  repeated  by  Sardou  himself.  Be 
its  authenticity  what  it  may,  it  is  amusing  enough 
to  be  quoted  : 

"  His  familiar  spirit  was  that  of  Beaumar- 
chais — naturally  enough — and  on  one  occasion 
the  author  of  *Les  Pattes  de  Mouche'  asked 
his  invisible  friend  in  what  part  of  infinite  space 
dwelt  the  spirit  of  the  great  Mozart — Sardou's 
favorite  composer.  *  Take  a  pencil,'  rapped  Beau- 
marchais.  Sardou  obeyed,  and  began,  under  the 
influence  of  the  author  of  the  'Marriage  of  Fi- 
garo,' to  draw  shapes  and  lines  on  the  paper  be- 
fore him.  Suddenly  he  came  to  the  end  of  his 
paper.  What  was  to  be  done  ?  *  Go  to  the  Boule- 
vard St.  Michel,  such  and  such  a  number,'  rapped 
Beaumarchais  ;  '  you  will  find  there  the  paper  you 
need.'  Sardou  jumped  into  a  cab,  and  was  at  the 
given  address  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  but, 
alas  !  to  his  disappointment  there  was   nothing 


VICTORIEN  SARDOU.  207 

like  a  stationer's  shop  to  be  found  in  the  house 
indicated  by  the  defunct  Beaumarchais. 

"  On  his  return  home  he  again  put  himself  in 
communication  with  the  deceitful  spirit.  *  Re- 
turn,' rapped  the  invisible  tyrant,  laconically. 
Back  went  Sardou,  and,  after  making  many  in- 
quiries, he  found  that  there  did  live  a  wholesale 
paper  merchant  in  the  house  indicated  by  the 
spirit.  To  buy  the  necessary  quantity  of  paper, 
return  home,  and  seat  himself  once  more  at  his 
table,  pencil  in  hand,  was  the  work  of  but  a  few 
minutes,  and  then — oh,  wonder  of  wonders  ! — he 
began  involuntarily,  and  without  any  impulse  of 
his  own,  to  draw  the  most  extraordinary  and  fan- 
tastic palace,  without  doors,  and  of  an  unknown 
style  of  architecture.  It  was  there  the  spirit  of 
Mozart  dwelt ! 

"The  drawing  was  so  extraordinary  and  so 
marvelously  well  done  that  Sardou  was  anxious 
to  have  it  engraved,  but  no  engraver  could  be 
found  in  Paris  who  would  undertake  it,  so  com- 
plex and  subtle  were  the  lines  and  in  such  a  grand 
chaos  of  confusion,  although  forming  an  artistic 
unity.  The  spirit  of  Beaumarchais  rapped  Sar- 
dou out  of  this  dilemma  by  instructing  him  to  be- 
gin the  sketch  over  again,  but  this  time  on  litho- 
graphic paper.  Sardou  did  the  work  within  the 
space  of  a  few  hours,  and  it  is  this  marvelous  lith- 
ograph, known  as  *  La  Maison  de  Mozart,'  which 
the  brother  of  the  author  of  '  Dora ' — the  well- 
14 


208  FRENCH   MEN   OF   LETTERS. 

known   bookseller  in   Brussels  —  sells  to   a  few 
privileged  amateurs  ! " 

His  first  play  was  "La  Taveme  des  ifitudiants," 
produced,  I  believe,  at  the  Odeon  in  1854.  But 
the  piece  was  by  no  means  a  success.  Disappoint- 
ed, he  did  not  yield.  Still  smarting  from  de- 
feat, he  gave  himself  up  to  studying  its  causes, 
and  soon  began  again  to  work  with  characteristic 
ardor.  He  eagerly  perused  the  great  masters  of 
dramatic  art,  especially  Moli^re  and  Scribe.  He 
analyzed  the  mechanism  of  their  plays,  as  a  watch- 
maker might  take  apart  a  watch.  He  felt  that  the 
art  of  the  playwright  includes  a  great  deal  that  is 
pure  mechanism,  and  which  must  be  mastered  be- 
fore success  can  be  attained.  This,  called  in 
French,  metier^  he  determined  to  acquire  before 
reappearing  on  the  stage  ;  and  he  finished  by 
learning  it  better  than  any  of  his  peers.  But,  if 
it  be  difficult  for  a  debutant  to  find  a  manager 
willing  to  produce  his  play,  it  is  doubly  so  for  one 
who  has  failed  in  his  debut.  The  unhappy  author 
of  "  La  Taverne  des  ifitudiants  "  found  every  door 
barred  against  him,  and  frequently  met  with  worse 
treatment  than  a  dog  might  expect.  He  had  to 
suffer  no  little  at  the  hands  of  feuilletonists  and 
newspaper  critics.  Paul  Feval,  above  all,  so 
rudely  handled  him  that  Sardou  could  not  forbear 
resenting  the  insult.  A  scandal  and  a  duel  were 
the  result  of  the  affair,  the  termination  of  which 
was  maliciously  reported  by  F^val  to  the  intended 


VICTORIEN  SARDOU.  209 

discredit  of  his  adversary.  But  Sardou  soon  had 
his  revenge.  Barriere  acknowledged  his  abilities. 
"  That  young  man,"  said  he,  pointing  him  out  to 
a  friend  as  Sardou  stood  shivering  in  a  shabby 
overcoat,  "that  young  man — make  no  mistake — 
he  is  the  theatre  personified." 

This  opposition  rendered  Sardou's  means  of 
existence  still  more  precarious.  He  struggled 
gallantly  against  want,  but,  being  not  so  strong 
in  physique  as  in  will,  he  at  last  fell  ill  with  a 
broken  constitution.  The  year  1857  found  him 
in  the  garret  of  a  tenement-house  in  the  Quartier 
Montraartre,  actually  starving,  without  clothes, 
without  medicines,  and  the  prey  of  typhoid  fever. 
A  woman  saved  his  life.  Mile,  de  Brecourt,  who 
dwelt  on  the  second  floor  of  the  house,  and  who 
had  a  few  times  met  him  in  the  hall- way,  on  learn- 
ing of  his  plight,  came  to  his  side,  nursed  him  like 
a  sister,  and  provided  for  all  his  necessities.  Nat- 
urally enough,  a  love  sprang  up  between  the  two, 
and  shortly  after  Sardou's  recovery  they  were 
married.  Mile,  de  Brecourt  did  more  than  save 
his  life.  She  opened  to  him  the  path  of  fame. 
Convinced  of  his  talents,  she  introduced  him  to 
Mile.  Dejazet,  who,  in  the  prime  of  her  glory,  was 
then  building  the  theatre  which  afterward  bore 
her  name.  As  Mile.  Dejazet  realized  the  value  of 
his  gifts,  so  did  Sardou  appreciate  the  qualities  of 
the  great  actress.  He  created  the  rdles  which 
were  named  after  her.     His  first  play,  "  Les  Pre- 


210-  FRENCH   MEN   OF  LETTERS. 

mitres  Armes  de  Figaro,"  and  still  more  his  sec- 
ond, "  Garat,"  introduced  him  to  public  favor. 
When  the  first-named  play  was  produced,  Mon- 
tigny,  the  late  manager  of  the  Gymnase,  had 
"  Pattes  de  Mouche "  in  his  pigeon-hole  for  two 
years,  and  there  it  would  probably  have  remained 
unread  for  many  more,  had  it  not  been  for  the 
success  which  greeted  the  last  efforts*  of  Sardou's 
talent.  Montigny  then  carefully  perused  "  Pattes 
de  Mouche,"  and  was  much  pleased  with  it.  He 
hesitated,  however,  to  trust  his  own  judgment, 
and  requested  Scribe  to  read  the  piece  and  give 
him  his  opinion.  Scribe  reported  that  the  play 
was  good,  but  that  the  author  would  never  be  a 
great  dramatist.  "  He  eminently  lacks  dramatic 
genius,"  said  Scribe  to  Montigny  ;  "  you  should 
advise  Sardou  to  write  novels,  poems — anything 
but  plays."  But  Scribe  proved  to  be  as  bad  a 
prophet  and  critic  as  he  was  a  good  playwright. 
In  a  short  time  Sardou  was  generally  acknowl- 
edged one  of  the  great  dramatists  of  our  time. 

In  a  single  year  (1861)  Sardou  had  five  new 
plays  performing  in  the  first  theatres  of  Paris — 
"Pattes  de  Mouche"  and  "Piccolino"  at  the 
Gymnase,  and  "Les  Femmes  Fortes,"  "L'Ecu- 
reuil,"  and  "  Nos  Intimes  "  at  the  Vaudeville.  At 
the  fourth  act  of  "  Nos  Intimes,"  when  first  repre- 
sented, the  applause  of  the  audience  was  tremen- 
dous, and  the  theatre  shook  with  repeated  calls  for 
Sardou,  who,  however,  overcome  by  emotion,  had 


VICTORIEN  SARDOU.  211 

retired.  MeetiDg  Franeisque  Sarcey  at  the  actor's 
door,  he  cried  :  "  There  are  no  feelings  that  move 
us  like  the  passions  of  the  stage  !  "  and  fell,  almost 
fainting,  into  his  arms.  It  is  well  known  that  since 
that  time  he  has  produced,  besides  other  plays, 
"La  Perle  Noire,"  "La  Famille  Benolton,"  "Nos 
Bons  Villageois,"  "  Maison  Neuve,"  "  S6raphine," 
"Patrie,"  "Fernande,"  "Rabagas,"  "Andrea," 
"L'Oncle  Sam,"  "Haine,"  and  "Dora."  Most  of 
these  are  familiar  acquaintances  of  the  American 
community. 

Glory  did  not,  however,  bring  him  happiness. 
He  was  no  longer  poor  ;  but  he  lost,  before  many 
years,  the  generous  woman  who  had  been  his  ele- 
vation. The  friendship  of  Dejazet  sustained  him. 
She  treated  him  with  maternal  attention,  and  he 
certainly  was  more  devoted  to  her  than  her  own 
son,  who  wasted  her  money  faster  than  she  could 
earn  it.  Sardou  assisted  her  to  the  end  of  her 
life,  and,  if  memory  does  not  deceive  me,  she  died 
in  his  house  at  Cannot.  On  the  day  of  her  burial 
his  behavior  was  sublime.  He  pronounced  on  her 
grave  a  eulogy,  ever  broken  by  tears,  like  Dumas 
at  the  tomb  of  Desclee,  like  Hugo  at  the  bourne 
of  George  Sand.  In  1872  Sardou  had  seemingly 
recovered  from  the  loss  of  his  wife  and  the  death 
of  Dejazet.  He  married  the  daughter  of  the 
Conservator  of  the  Museum  at  Versailles,  and 
certainly  he  has  no  reason  to  regret  having  tempt- 
ed twice  the  fortunes  of  married  life. 


212  FRENCH  MEN   OF  LETTERS. 

Sardou  was  recently  received  at  the  Academy. 
Tickets  of  admission  to  the  reception  were  sought 
for  by  an  exceedingly  large  number  of  representa- 
tives of  all  classes  of  French  society.  Sardou  took 
the  seat  of  Autran,  and  read  one  of  the  most  bril- 
liant speeches  ever  heard  within  the  walls  of  that 
ancient  and  famous  institute.  So  perfect  was  his 
delivery  that  he  probably  astonished  all  of  the 
members  save  Dumas.  Charles  Blanc  answered 
him,  according  to  custom,  and,  in  a  gentle  man- 
ner, uttered  some  political  views  which  tended  to 
reproach  Sardou  for  having  written  "  Rabagas." 
Sardou,  who  is  in  a  degree  an  undemonstrative 
Bonapartist,  smiled,  and  is  said  to  have  remarked, 
"that  he  only  regretted  the  closing  up  of  the 
Tuileries,  because  it  used  to  afford  him  splendid 
chances  for  actors  and  subjects."  But  he  need 
not  to  have  been  vexed  in  this  regard  ;  the  public 
palaces  of  the  democracy  have  provided  him  with 
material  quite  as  good.  To  do  full  justice  to  his 
position  as  an  academician,  he  has  written  a  new 
play,  "  Daniel  Rochat,"  which,  as  is  known,  offers 
a  debatable  solution  of  the  vexed  questions  affect- 
ing the  religious  and  social  relations  of  man  and 
wife,  and  which  has  aroused  a  storm  of  criticism, 
particularly  in  republican  quarters.  So  far  as  can 
be  judged  from  perusal,  Sardou,  despite  the  mar- 
velous beauty  of  many  portions,  seems  here  to 
have  unduly  given  himself  to  philosophizing.  It 
is  not  true,  however,  as  is  commonly  believed,  that 


VICTORIEN  SARDOU.  213 

this  is  the  first  play  offered  by  him  to  the  Theatre 
Fran9ais.  "  La  Papillone  "  was  produced  on  the 
stage  of  the  latter  as  far  back  as  1862.  Sardou 
has  preferred  to  work  for  the  Vaudeville  and  the 
Gymnase  merely  because  the  audiences  at  these 
theatres  were  better  identified  with  the  spirit  of 
his  plays. 

Sardou  has  been  reproached  with  being  the 
Boucicault  of  France  ;  that  is,  with  ignorance  as 
to  the  proper  construction  of  meum  and  tuum  in 
the  matter  of  characters  and  plots  drawn  from 
older  playwrights  and  novelists.  This  charge  is, 
in  the  main,  well  founded.  "  Pattes  de  Mouche," 
for  instance,  owes  its  origin  to  a  tale  of  Edgar 
Poe.  The  whole  first  act  of  "  Nos  Intimes "  is 
taken  from  an  old  vaudeville.  "  L'Oncle  Sam  "  is 
little  more  than  an  adaptation  of  a  novel  of  M. 
Assolant.  "Fernande"  is  a  very  adroit  rejuve- 
nescence of  the  celebrated  episode  concerning 
Mme.  de  la  Pommeraye  and  the  Marquis  des  Ar- 
cis  in  "  Jacques  le  Fataliste  "  of  Diderot.  Sardou, 
hovever,  does  not  disown  his  great  assimilative 
power.  He  wittily  answers  his  critics  :  "  Yes  ;  I 
have  hatched  the  eggs  which  other  birds  have 
only  laid  "  ;  or,  "  Do  you  really  believe  that  there 
is  anything  new  under  the  sun  ?  If  there  is  any- 
thing new  and  veritably  prodigious  in  the  Chris- 
tian history,  it  is  the  resurrection  of  Lazarus  or 
the  healing  of  the  leper."  He  surely  has  more 
than  once  called  to  a  new  and  lasting  life  goodly 


214  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

ideas  and  situations  which,  for  want  of  skill  on 
the  part  of  former  laborers,  had  else  been  doomed 
to  eternal  oblivion.  As  regards  "Fernande,"  as 
£mile  Montagut  well  remarks,  he  has  failed  to 
improve  as  much  as  might  be  desired  upon  the 
work  of  Diderot.  "  The  modification  introduced 
in  the  revenge  of  the  lady,  who  pretends  to  be 
outraged  by  the  self -provoked  abandonment  of 
her  lover,  is  excellent  and  admirably  suited  to 
dramatic  conditions.  But  in  the  following  scene 
Diderot  rises  superior  to  Sardou,  both  in  eloquence 
of  passion  and  knowledge  of  human  character. 
In  Sardou 's  play,  the  Marquis,  on  learning  the 
horrible  truth  of  the  deception  of  which  he  is  the 
victim,  first  abandons  himself  to  a  natural  despair, 
then  suddenly  grows  calm,  though  none  of  the 
few  words  uttered  by  Fernande  can  account  for 
such  an  unexpected  change.  The  reader  will  not 
admit  that  a  husband  so  perfidiously  duped  would 
so  meekly  bear  with  the  outrage  done  his  honor. 
How  much  more  logical  is  Diderot,  when  he  rep- 
resents Mile.  d'Ainson  falling  at  the  feet  of  her 
husband,  supplicating,  promising  to  be  his  faith- 
ful, loving  spouse.  Her  eloquence  springs  from 
her  heart,  and  is  far  different  from  the  plea  of 
Sardou's  lawyer,  Pomerol.  The  scene  of  the  hus- 
band's despair  should  have  its  complement  in  a 
scene  of  supplication  on  the  part  of  the  wife, 
which  could  restir  feelings  of  pity  in  the  soul  of 
the  Marquis.     The  dmoHment  would  then  have 


VICTORIEN  SARDOU.  215 

been  not  only  happy,  but  also  as  pathetic  as  the 
situation  from  which  it  springs." 

The  freedom  with  which  he  draws  upon  the 
labors  of  others  has  entailed  upon  Sardou  some 
disagreeable  adventures.  He  is  frequently  be- 
sieged by  authors  or  heirs  of  authors,  who,  strong 
in  their  rights  of  literary  property,  insist  upon  a 
share  of  his  profits.  He  has  had  from  this  source 
more  than  one  lawsuit ;  but  the  courts  have  gener- 
ally found  that  in  each  case  Sardou  had  incorpo- 
rated so  much  original  matter  as  to  render  a  verdict 
in  his  favor  a  mere  matter  of  course.  He  has  been 
prosecuted  by  people  who  complained  that  them- 
selves were  too  fully  satirized  in  his  plays,  and  by 
some  whose  names  he  had  unwittingly  adopted 
in  certain  rdles.  It  was  a  druggist  who  once  per- 
secuted him  with  such  pertinacity  for  some  short- 
coming of  this  nature,  that,  in  order  to  secure 
peace,  the  dramatist  was  forced  to  part  with  many 
thousand  francs.  The  worthy  tradesman  had  dis- 
covered a  close  family  resemblance  between  him- 
self and  a  certain  character  in  "  Nos  Bons  Yil- 
lageois." 

Objections  have  now  and  then  been  made 
against  Sardou's  plays  on  the  ground  of  immor- 
ality. It  is  the  illusion  of  scandal,  however, 
rather  than  scandal  itself,  that  appears  in  them. 
Only  a  person  so  strait-laced  as  my  Lord  Cham- 
berlain of  London  would  object  to  their  repre- 
sentation.    It  is  a  mark  of  Sardou's  art  that  he 


216  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

can  proceed  to  the  utmost  verge  of  immorality 
without  falling  into  the  pool  of  depravity  and 
filth.  Some  of  his  situations  appear  to  us  im- 
moral, in  much  the  same  fashion  as  we  might, 
under  suitable  circumstances,  be  frightened  into 
the  delusion  that  a  large  watch-dog  is  a  bear 
about  to  destroy  us.  If  he  introduce  an  old  lover 
into  the  apartment  of  a  married  woman,  it  is  that 
she  may  return  him  certain  letters,  and  the  lover 
will  bravely  jump  out  of  the  window  whenever 
her  honor  is  in  danger. 

Sardou  has  neither  the  noble  indignation  of 
Augier,  nor  the  misanthropy  of  Dumas,  nor  the 
sentimentalism  of  Feuillet,  nor  yet  the  skeptical 
raillery  of  Scribe.  But,  probably  better  than  any 
one  of  these,  he  knows  how  to  avail  himself  of  the 
opportunities  offered  by  the  passing  moment,  and 
to  invest  this  passing  moment  with  powerful 
claims  upon  futurity.  When  the  luxury  of  the 
Second  Empire  had  attained  to  its  culmination,  he 
produced  the  "Famille  Benoiton,"  a  splendid 
satire  upon  the  extravagance  of  women.  When 
the  admiration  for  the  new  Paris  of  Baron 
Haussemann  was  bringing  ruin  upon  many  an 
honest  bourgeois,  he  strove  to  stem  the  tide  of 
calamity  by  his  "Maison  Neuve."  "Rabagas" 
owes  its  origin  to  circumstances  too  well  known 
to  need  comment.  With  "  Patrie  "  and  "  Haine  " 
he  rose  still  higher,  in  patriotic  motives,  by  show- 
ing, just  when  France  was  most  threatened  by 


VICTORIEN  SARDOU.  217 

civil  discord,  how  national  feeling  should  be  su- 
perior to  party  spirit.  We  believe  that  this  same 
skill  in  catching  and  perpetuating  the  spirit  of 
the  moment  is  one  of  the  prime  factors  of  his 
wonderful  success. 

Many  of  Sardou's  plays  have  been  acted  in 
this  country.  "  Le  Roi  Garotte  "  was  given  by  Mr. 
Daly  at  the  Grand  Opera  House.  The  mise  en  sc^ne 
cost  him  $45,000,  Sardou  having  himself  directed 
at  Paris  the  selection  of  costumes  and  the  general 
outfit  of  the  American  performance.  "  Andrea," 
which  is  by  some  critics  accounted  the  most  per- 
fect of  Sardou's  works,  was  written  originally  for 
the  American  stage,  its  name  having  been  at  first 
"  Agnes,"  and  for  it  Agnes  Ethel  paid  to  the  au- 
thor 50,000  francs.  With  this  play  was  inaugu- 
rated the  Union  Square  Theatre.  Fechter  made 
the  translation,  and  assumed  charge  of  the  mise  en 
sc^ne,  "Nos  Intimes"  was  produced  at  Wal- 
lack's  as  "  Bosom  Friends  "  in  the  elegant  transla- 
tion of  Mr.  Young.  "La  Famille  Benoiton"  was 
produced  at  the  same  theatre  under  the  title  of 
"The  Fast  Family."  "Nos  Bons  Villageois "  was 
also  performed  at  this  theatre  under  the  title  of 
"  A  Dangerous  Game  "  ;  and  it  is  not  long  since 
"  Dora "  was  making  the  tour  of  the  country 
under  the  name  of  "Diplomacy,"  and  "Pattes  de 
Mouche  "  under  that  of  "  A  Scrap  of  Paper."  At 
the  Union  Square  Theatre  "  Seraphine  "  was  per- 
formed as  "  The  Mother's  Secret,"  and  "  Les  Bour- 


218  FRENCH   MEN   OF  LETTERS. 

geois  de  Pont  d'Arcy"  as  "Mother  and  Son," 
Monsieur  Cazauran  being  in  both  cases  the  clever 
adaptator. 

Despite  their  brilliancy,  Sardou's  dramas  do 
not  so  well  bear  with  reading  as  those  of  his  fel- 
low playwrights  of  the  present  day.  To  be  fully 
appreciated,  they  need  the  glare  of  the  footlights. 
This  is  probably  because  the  reader,  more  than  the 
beholder,  expects  a  deno'dment  in  keeping  with 
the  logic  of  events  and  the  necessities  of  character. 
In  comedies  of  character,  such  as  Moliere's,  the 
dmoiXment  may  be  a  secondary  matter  ;  but  in 
comedies  of  intrigue,  to  which  class  mainly  belong 
those  of  Sardou,  this  should  be  the  inevitable  con- 
sequence of  all  that  precedes — which  surely  can 
not  be  affirmed  of  his  works. 

The  commotion  which  has  attended  the  pro- 
duction of  "  Daniel  Rochat "  has  caused  Sardou 
to  vow  that  he  will  never  again  %vrite  a  play  ;  and 
he  has,  indeed,  striven  to  release  himself  from 
many  engagements  formed  before  its  representa- 
tion. Such  oaths,  however,  are  akin  to  those  of 
a  sailor,  and  the  stage  is  as  inseparable  from  Sar- 
dou's nature  as  the  sea  from  a  well-tried  tar. 


ALPHONSE   DAUDET.  219 


ALPHOJSrSE    DAUDET. 

It  is  the  general  notion  that  as  is  the  book  so  is 
the  nian  ;  that  no  author  can  wholly  conceal  his  per- 
sonality. Nature,  they  say,  driven  away  through 
the  door,  will  enter  by  the  window.  On  this  prin- 
ciple one  would  imagine  that  Zola  had  been  bred 
and  his  character  formed  amid  the  vilest  dregs  of 
the  Parisian  canaille.  Yet,  in  fact,  his  life  has 
been  blameless  and  pure. 

Alphonse  Daudet,  on  the  other  hand,  is  emphat- 
ically the  novelist  of  elegant,  aristocratic  society, 
the  favorite  of  the  ladies  of  the  drawing  room,  the 
depicter  of  all  that  is  of  the  highest  culture  in  the 
social  system.  Judging  him  by  his  writings,  one 
would  imagine  that  he  had  spent  his  whole  life 
leaning  in  full  dress  against  the  mantelpiece  of  the 
most  recherchk  salon  in  the  capital.  His  actual 
career,  on  the  contrary,  has  been  one  of  remarkable 
ups  and  downs.  The  society  with  which  he  min- 
gled, especially  during  his  youth,  was  by  no  means 
refined.  He  has  lived  like  a  thorough  Bohemi- 
an. His  breakfast  has  varied  from  nothing  at  all 
to  truffled  partridges  at  Bignon's,  graced  by  sau- 
terne  half  a  century  old.  He  has  lodged  in  the 
Rue  Muffetard — the  lowest  of  all  the  low  alleys  in 
Paris — and  again  he  has  dwelt  in  the  Avenue  de 
riraperatrice.     He  has  played  for  beans  at  Fev- 


220  FRENCH   MEN   OF  LETTERS. 

reux's,  in  the  Quartier  du  Temple,  and  has  broken 
the  bank  at  Hombourg.  He  has  drank  rivers  of 
champagne  with  the  most  gilded  specimens  of  the 
demi-monde  at  the  Cafe  Anglais,  and,  but  for  his 
brother,  he  would  have  passed  many  a  night  in 
the  open  air  for  lack  of  a  penny  with  which  to 
procure  a  lodging. 

His  novels,  however,  are  not  tainted  with  the 
fumes  of  the  absinthe  which  has  too  often  defiled 
his  breath  and  deranged  his  brain.  Idyls  as  sweet 
as  those  of  Balzac,  passions  as  ideal  as  those  of 
George  Sand,  conceptions  as  pure  as  those  of  Feuil- 
let  grace  his  pages.  His  books  are  moral,  even 
from  an  English  standpoint.  He  is  happy  in  the 
choice  of  his  subjects,  and  well  understands  how 
to  sugar  the  bitterest  pills  of  unsavory  realism  to 
suit  the  palate  of  the  most  poetical  idealist.  The 
fact  that  he  attacks  vice  with  gloves  does  not  at 
all  neutralize  the  vigor  of  his  blows.  He  excites 
without  becoming  sensational.  Few  authors,  too, 
can,  like  him,  make  the  reader  feel  a  sympathy  with 
his  characters.  He  can  hardly  be  called  a  realist ; 
yet  his  dearest  friends  are  Zola,  Flaubert,  and  the 
brothers  Goncourt.  His  engaging  manners  have 
won  for  him  the  title  of  "  the  lion  tamer  "  ;  and 
he  has  conciliated  Zola,  the  merciless  critical  ad- 
versary of  all  who  do  not  pin  their  faith  on  his 
realistic  gospel,  into  a  marked  deference. 

Daudet's  method  of  working  is  as  desultory  as 
his  former  mode  of  life.    "  Fromont  Jeune  and  Ris- 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET.  221 

ler  Aine  "  *  was  begun,  if  I  am  not  misinformed, 
without  the  slightest  preconceived  idea  of  how  it 
was  to  turn  out.  Unless  compelled  by  want  of 
money,  he  will  remain  idle  for  months  without 
writing  a  line.  Of  a  sudden  he  will  plunge,  soul 
and  body,  into  his  work,  and  injure  his  health  by 
remaining  for  weeks  closeted  in  his  study.  He 
works  in  a  state  of  intense  excitement,  and  it  is 
related  that  he  once  threw  an  inkstand  at  his  valet, 
who  had  been  rash  enough  to  interrupt  him  with 
a  question.  There  are  months  in  which  it  is  im- 
possible to  get  a  glimpse  of  him  anywhere,  and 
again  he  will  be  met  with  at  every  public  assem- 
blage or  center  of  attraction. 

Alphonse  was  born  at  Nimes,  May  13th,  1840. 
The  father  of  Elysee  Meraut  in  "  Les  Rois  en  Exil " 
is  a  faithful  picture  of  Daudet's  father.  One  day 
the  Duke  de  Levis-Mirepoix,  passing  by  Nimes, 
visited  the  factory  of  the  elder  Daudet.  "  How 
many  children  have  you  ?  "  asked  the  Duke.  The 
good  old  gentleman  had  four  children,  three  boys 
and  a  girl ;  but,  as  he  was  a  Legitimist,  he  took 
the  female  into  no  consideration,  and  replied,  "  I 
have  three — Henry,  Ernest,  and  Alphonse."  The 
Duke  de  Mirepoix  wrote  their  names  in  his  note- 
book, and  promised  that  he  would  think  of  them 
when  they  should  be  a  little  older.  Since  that 
visit,  the  affairs  of  M.  Daudet  growing  worse,  his 
good  wife  would  frequently  worry  about  the  fu- 

*  Published  here  under  the  title  of  "  Sidonie." 


222  FRENCH   MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

ture  of  her  two  sons,  Ernest  and  Alphonse — Hen- 
ry was  dead — "Be  at  ease,"  her  husband  used 
to  say ;  "  the  Duke  of  Levis  will  not  forget  his 
promise." 

All  this  is  related  in  "  Les  Rois  en  Exil."  The 
Duke  d'Athis  of  the  novel  is  no  one  else  than  the 
Duke  de  Levis  ;  and,  like  Elys^e  Meraut,  Alphonse 
Daudet  bears  still  on  his  brow  the  marks  of  the 
blows  he  received  in  the  many  battles  the  boyish 
Legitimist  fought  with  his  Protestant  antagonists. 

The  promise  of  the  Duke  depended  chiefly  on 
the  elevation  of  the  Count  de  Chambord  to  the 
throne.  It  is,  therefore,  needless  to  say  that  he 
did  nothing  in  behalf  of  young  Daudet  and  his 
brother.  A  fire  which  destroyed  the  factory,  and 
subsequently  a  lawsuit  unsuccessfully  carried  on 
for  several  years,  reduced  the  family  to  poverty. 
Alphonse  was  about  ten  years  of  age  when  his 
parents  were  obliged  to  quit  Nimes,  and  take  up 
their  residence  at  Lyons,  where  Daudet  could 
more  easily  find  employment. 

Young  Daudet  prosecuted  his  studies  in  the 
public  schools  at  Lyons.  Although  he  had  scarce- 
ly sufficient  books  to  study  with,  he  soon  distin- 
guished himself  among  his  fellow  students  by  his 
gift  of  elegant  diction  and  his  turn  for  satire.  The 
latter  was  far  from  pleasing  his  teachers,  who  were 
frequently  made  the  victims  of  his  wit.  He  was 
an  enthusiastic  admirer  of  Victor  Hugo,  and,  un- 
like many  others,  has  never  ceased  to   feel  the 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET.  223 

warmest  friendship  and  veneration  for  that  poet. 
But  other  misfortunes  overcame  his  family.  At 
an  age  when  most  young  men  who  are  looking 
forward  to  a  professional  life  have  nothing  to  do 
save  study,  Daudet  was  compelled  to  leave  his 
books  and  earn  his  own  living.  He  secured  a  posi- 
tion as  teacher  in  a  college  at  Allais — very  little 
more  than  a  gossipy  village — where  he  remained 
for  nearly  two  years,  chafing  against  the  narrow- 
mindedness  of  the  people  with  whom  he  had  to 
deal.  At  last,  his  patience  having  become  ex- 
hausted, he  renounced  a  living  procured  at  the  ex- 
pense of  his  independence,  and  twenty-four  hours 
later  entered  Paris,  where  he  had  been  preceded 
by  his  brother  Ernest. 

Ernest  Daudet,  who  since  has  also  made  his 
way  in  the  literary  world,  then  lived  in  a  small 
room  on  the  top  floor  of  a  house  in  the  Rue  Tour- 
non,  and  earned  his  living  by  acting  as  amanuensis 
to  an  old  gentleman  who  was  dictating  his  mem- 
oirs. The  pair  had  to  live  on  a  hundred  francs  a 
month.  Alphonse  would  frequently  remain  in  bed 
two  or  three  days  in  succession,  to  dream  and  work, 
feeding  on  a  small  provision  of  bread  and  sausage 
he  had  made  in  advance.  Notwithstanding  that 
his  loving  brother  abandoned  to  him  the  greater 
part  of  his  income,  Alphonse  passed  through  or- 
deals and  privations  that  would  have  driven  many 
men  to  crime  or  despair.  In  the  morning  he  fre- 
quently knew  not  where  he  should  get  a  meal,  and 
15 


224  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

dreamed  at  night  of  the  dinner  he  had  not  eaten. 
Yet  he  was  writing  poetry  !  He  had  a  vohime  of 
poems  ready  for  publication,  but  could  not  find  a 
publisher.  His  brother,  called  by  Alphonse  "La 
M^re  Jacque "  in  "  Le  Petit  Chose, "  came  again 
to  his  aid.  He  borrowed  a  thousand  francs  from 
a  friend,  and  "Les  Amoureuses"  was  published 
at  the  author's — or,  rather,  at  his  brother's — ex- 
pense. The  volume  was  well  received  by  critics 
and  connoisseurs  ;  but  financially  was  a  failure. 

One  of  the  most  charming  little  things  that 
Daudet  has  ever  written  is  undoubtedly  "  Premier 
Habit."  The  story  refers  to  the  first  evening 
suit  that  the  author  of  "  Les  Amoureuses  "  pos- 
sessed, and  to  his  debut  in  society.  It  was  at  a 
reception  offered  by  Augustine  Brohan,  the  cele- 
brated actress.  "My  book  of  poems  had  just 
blossomed, "  says  Daudet,  "  fresh  and  virgin-like, 
beneath  a  pink  cover.  Several  newspapers  had 
*  praised  my  rhymes.  The  'Journal  Ofiiciel'  itself 
had  given  a  whole  column  to  them.  I  was  a  poet 
— ^not  only  in  my  garret  but  in  the  show-windows  of 
the  booksellers.  Wandering  through  the  streets, 
I  wondered  that  the  throng  of  passers-by  did  not 
turn  their  heads  to  gaze  in  astonishment  at  the 
poet  of  eighteen.  I  positively  felt  upon  my  brow 
the  sweet  pressure  of  a  paper  wreath  made  of 
newspaper  clippings. 

"  Some  one  procured  for  me  an  invitation  to 
the  soirees  of  Augustine  Brohan.     To  be  invited 


ALPHONSE   DAUDET.  225 

to  the  receptions  of  Augustine,  the  illustrious  co- 
medienne— fancy  if  I  accepted  !  .  .  .  How  I  as- 
cended the  steps,  how  I  entered  and  introduced 
myself,  I  know  not.  A  valet  announced  my  name  ; 
but  my  name,  sputtered  as  it  was  by  that  idiot, 
had  no  effect  whatever  upon  the  assemblage.  I 
only  remember  that  a  lady  whispered, '  A  dancer  1 
So  much  the  better.'  It  seems  that  dancers  were 
scarce.     A  triumphal  entry  indeed  for  a  poet ! 

"Humiliated  and  disgusted,  I  endeavored  to 
hide  myself  in  the  crowd.  But  to  no  purpose  ; 
my  dress  coat,  too  large  for  my  body,  my  long 
hair,  my  restless,  mocking  eyes,  seemingly  attracted 
the  curiosity  of  the  throng.     Such  whisperings  as 

*  Who  is   he  ? ' — *  Look  at  that   young  man  ! ' — 

*  What  a  strange  being  ! ' — reached  my  ears,  to- 
gether with  laughters  that  were  anything  but  en- 
couraging. Finally  some  one  said  :  *  He  is  the  Wal- 
lachian  prince  ! '  The  Wallachian  prince  ?  It 
seems  that  that  evening  a  Wallachian  prince  was 
expected.  From  that  moment  I  was  classified, 
and  no  longer  bothered  by  the  inquisitiveness  of 
the  company.  But  it  made  no  difference  ;  you  can 
not  imagine  how  the  usurped  crown  weighed  upon 
my  brow.  First  a  dancer,  then  a  Wallachian 
prince  !     All  those  people  did  not  see  my  lyre  ! 

"  Luckily  for  me,  a  startling  piece  of  news,  rap- 
idly making  the  tour  of  the  apartment,  caused  the 
little  dancer  and  the  Wallachian  prince  to  be  for- 
gotten.    Gustave  Fould,  the  son  of  the  Minister 


226  k  FREN^Cn  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

of  the  Interior,  had  married  Valerie,  the  charming 
actress.  Emotion  controlled  everybody.  The 
gentlemen,  most  of  them  high  officials  of  the 
state,  nodded  in  disgust,  and  rounded  their 
mouths  into  big  Ohs !  saying,  '  It  is  a  serious  af- 
fair— very  serious,  indeed.  No  more  respect  for 
anything.  The  Emperor  should  have  interfered 
— sacred  rights — paternal  authority  ! '  and  similar 
phrases.  The  ladies,  on  the  other  hand,  boldly 
and  merrily  took  sides  with  the  two  lovers,  who 
had  just  repaired  to  London.  Their  tongues — 
well,  you  may  imagine  what  the  tongues  of  fifty 
excited  women  are  capable  of. 

"Finally,  the  excitement  subsided,  and  danc- 
ing commenced.  I,  too,  was  compelled  to  dance. 
I  danced  very  poorly  for  a  Wallachian  prince. 
The  quadrille  being  over,  I — restrained  by  my 
awful  short-sightedness,  too  timid  to  wear  an 
eye-glass,  and  too  poetical  to  put  on  spectacles, 
and  fearing  always  to  hurt  my  knee  against  a 
piece  of  furniture,  or  to  entangle  my  feet  amidst 
the  heaps  of  filmy  trails  that  covered  the  carpet 
— I  sat  for  a  long  while  in  a  corner,  as  still  as  a 
statue.  Soon,  however,  hunger  and  thirst  inter- 
fered with  my  comfort ;  but,  for  an  empire,  I 
would  not  have  dared  to  approach  the  refresh- 
ment-table simultaneously  with  the  other  guests. 
I  resolved  to  wait  till  the  room  should  be  empty. 
Meanwhile  I  joined  a  group  of  politicians,  not 
without  assuming  a  grave  mien  and  simulating  to 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET.  227 

disdain  the  pleasures  of  the  room  whence,  with 
the  ring  of  laughter,  and  the  noise  of  forks  and 
spoons,  came  to  me  the  tantalizing  savors  of  hot 
tea,  Spanish  wines,  cakes,  and  truffles. 

"  At  last  the  company  again  invaded  the  ball- 
room. My  time  had  come.  I  entered  the  dining- 
saloon.  I  was  dazzled  with  the  setting  of  the  ta- 
ble. In  the  glaring  light  of  a  thousand  wax-can- 
dles, the  huge  pyramid  of  glasses  and  bottles  of 
cut-crystal  that  arose  before  my  eyes  amid  a  gar- 
den of  flowers,  bonbons,  and  exquisite  delicacies, 
presented  a  fairy-like  spectacle.  I  took  a  glass  as 
frail  as  a  flower  ;  I  took  good  care  not  to  squeeze 
it  too  hard  for  fear  of  breaking  the  stem.  What 
was  I  to  pour  into  my  glass  ?  I  was  embarrassed 
as  to  choice.  I  seized  the  first  decanter  at  hand, 
and  began  to  pour  out  a  portion  of  its  contents  as 
slowly  as  a  gourmet  would  do.  It  was  like  liquid 
diamond.  I  thought  it  was  kirsch.  I  like  kirsch  ; 
its  flavor  reminds  me  of  the  forest.  I  raised  the 
glass,  put  out  my  lips.  Horror  !  '  'Tis  water  ! '  I 
exclaimed.  Suddenly  a  double  peal  of  laughter 
echoed  through  the  room.  A  dress  coat  and  a 
pink  robe  which  I  had  not  noticed  before,  and 
which  were  flirting  in  a  corner,  had  been  greatly 
amused  by  my  mistake.  I  wanted  to  put  the 
glass  back  to  its  place  ;  but,  troubled  as  I  was,  my 
hand  trembled,  my  sleeve  caught  upon  I  know  not 
what.  Two,  three,  ten  glasses  fell.  I  turned  my- 
self ;  the  tails  of  my  coat  also  interfered,  and  the 


228  FRENCH   MEN  OF    LETTERS. 

glittering  pyramid  tumbled  to  the  floor  witli  tlie 
flasli  and  crash  of  a  crumbling  iceberg. 

"  The  hostess  rushed  in  at  the  noise.  Happily, 
she  was  as  short-sighted  as  the  Wallachian  prince, 
and  the  latter  was  enabled  to  leave  the  room  un- 
recognized. My  evening,  however,  was  spoiled. 
That  massacre  of  glasses  and  decanters  weighed 
upon  my  conscience  like  a  crime.  I  thought  only 
of  going.  But  Madame  Dubois,  dazzled  by  the 
splendor  of  my  principality,  clung  to  me,  and  ob- 
jected to  my  departure  before  I  had  danced  with 
her  daughter — ay,  with  her  two  daughters.  I 
excused  myself  as  well  as  I  could,  and  was  about 
to  escape  her  persecution,  when  Dr.  Ricord,  a 
tall  old  gentleman  having  the  head  of  a  bishop 
and  the  smile  of  a  diplomat,  with  whom  I  had 
previously  exchanged  a  few  words,  and  who,  like 
the  other  guests,  believed  I  was  a  Wallachian 
prince,  arrested  me  to  offer  me  a  seat  in  his  car- 
riage. I  would  gladly  have  accepted,  but  I  was 
without  an  overcoat.  'What  would  Dr.  Ricord 
think,'  I  said  to  myself,  *  of  a  Wallachian  prince 
shivering  in  his  dress  suit,  instead  of  being  wrapped 
in  furs  ?  Let  us  avoid  him,  return  home  on  foot 
through  fog  and  snow,  rather  than  let  him  perceive 
our  poverty.'  Thus,  more  troubled  than  ever,  I 
gained  the  door,  and  glided  down  the  staircase. 
My  humiliations  were  not  yet  at  an  end.  In  the 
vestibule  a  valet  cried  to  me,  'Monsieur,  don't 
you  take  your  overcoat  ? ' 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET.  229 

"  There  I  was,  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
at  a  great  distance  from  my  lodging,  wandering 
through  muddy  streets,  hungry,  frozen,  and  with 
the  tail  of  the  devil  in  my  pocket  [almost  penni- 
less]. Hunger  inspired  me.  *  Suppose  I  were  go- 
ing to  the  Halles  ?  '  said  I.  I  had  frequently  heard 
about  one  Monsieur  G who  kept  a  night  res- 
taurant there,  and  who,  for  three  cents,  gave  a 
huge  dish  of  excellent  cabbage-soup.  *Yes,  de- 
cidedly, I  will  go  to  the  Halles,'  I  rejoined,  pock- 
eting my  pride,  as  the  icy  wind  was  blowing  into 
my  face,  and  hunger  tormented  my  stomach.  *  My 
kingdom  for  a  horse  ! '  some  one  has  said  ;  *  My 
Wallachian  principality,'  I  was  saying  as  I  was 
going  at  a  jog-trot  toward  the  market,  '  for  a  good 
dish  of  soup  and  a  warm  room.' 

"  And  a  dirty  hole  it  was,  M.  G h  estab- 
lishment !  Very  often  since,  when  it  was  the  fash- 
ion to  turn  night  into  day,  I  have  passed  there 
entire  nights,  among  future  great  men,  my  elbows 
on  the  greasy  tables,  smoking,  and  talking  about 
literature.  But  the  first  time  that  I  entered  that 
restaurant,  I  confess  it,  I  flinched,  in  spite  of  hun- 
ger, before  its  black  walls  and  its  smoky  atmos- 
phere, before  all  that  crowd  of  ghostly  people 
seated  before  the  tables,  either  snoring,  with  their 
backs  leaning  against  the  walls,  or  licking  up  their 
soup  in  dog-like  style.  I  entered,  however,  and 
must  say  that  my  dress  coat  was  not  alone.  Even- 
ing suits  without  overcoats  are  by  no  means  rare 


230  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

things  at  Paris  during  the  winter  nights,  nor  those 
people  who  hunger  after  cabbage  soup  at  three 
cents — soup  otherwise  excellent,  smelling  like  a 
garden  and  fuming  like  a  crater.  I  partook  of  it 
twice,  although  the  necessary  practice  of  chain- 
ing forks  and  spoons  to  the  table  vexed  me  con- 
siderably. Finally  I  paid,  and,  warmed  up  by  my 
solid  repast,  I  resumed  my  journey  to  the  Quartier 
Latin.  Fancy  my  return — the  return  of  the  poet, 
trotting  along  the  Rue  Toumon,  the  collar  of  his 
dress  coat  turned  up,  tapping  his  thin  shoes  against 
the  rail  of  the  house  to  shake  off  the  snow,  while 
on  the  other  side  of  the  way  Dr.  Ricord  was  just 
alighting  from  his  comfortable  coupe  ! 

"  *  An  evening  lost,'  my  brother  said,  next 
morning  ;  '  you  have  passed  for  a  Wallachian 
prince  ;  it  is  all  very  well,  but  you  have  not  ad- 
vertised your  volume.  You  need  not  despair, 
however.  You  will  recover  from  your  loss  on  the 
visite  de  la  digestio?!.^  The  digestion  of  a  glass 
of  water  !  It  took  me  two  months  to  resolve 
upon  a  second  visit.  One  day,  at  length,  I  deter- 
mined upon  going.  Besides  her  official  recep- 
tions on  Wednesday  evenings,  Augustine  Brohan 
every  Sunday  morning  received  her  most  intimate 
friends.  It  was  to  one  of  those  matinees  that  I 
boldly  went. 

"  I  presented  myself  at  one  o'clock.  I  was  two 
hours  too  early.  The  lady  was  making  her  toilet. 
I  had  to  wait  over  half  an  hour.     At  last  she  en- 


ALPHONSE   DAUDET.  231 

tered  ;  she  winked  and  recognized  her  Wallachian 
prince,  and  with  the  manner  of  one  who  must  say- 
something,  and  does  not  know  what  to  say,  she 
commenced,  *  Why,  Prince,  have  you  not  gone 
to  the  Marche  to-day  ? '  To  the  Marche  !  I,  who 
had  never  seen  a  race  or  a  jockey  ?  I  felt  ashamed 
of  this  deception  ;  the  blood  rushed  to  my  face. 
The  bright  sun  and  the  perfumes  of  flowers  which 
from  the  garden,  through  the  open  windows,  en- 
tered the  room,  the  absence  of  all  solemnity,  the 
good-natured  and  smiling  countenance  of  my  host- 
ess— all  this,  and  a  thousand  other  things,  gave 
me  courage,  and  I  opened  my  soul  to  her — I  made 
a  clean  breast  of  everything.  I  confessed  how  I 
was  neither  a  Wallachian  nor  a  prince  ;  told  her 
the  story  of  the  glass  of  kirsch,  and  the  damage 
I  had  done  ;  of  my  supper  at  the  Halles,  and  of 
my  distressing  journey  homeward  ;  of  my  provin- 
cial timidity,  of  my  short-sightedness  and  poverty; 
of  my  volume  and  my  hopes — and  all  this  so  rap- 
idly and  earnestly  that  Augustine  laughed  like  an 
insane  woman.  Suddenly  we  were  startled  by  a 
violent  pull  of  the  door-bell.  *  Ah  !  they  must  be 
my  cuirassiers,'  exclaimed  Augustine. 

" '  What  cuirassiers  ? ' 

"  ^  Two  cuirassiers  who  are  to  come  from  the 
Camp  of  Chalons,  in  order  that  I  may  judge  if 
they  are  fit  for  the  stage.  They  have  the  reputa- 
tion of  being  excellent  comedians.' 

"  I  thought  it  advisable  to  retire,  but    '  Re- 


232  FRENCH  MEN   OF  LETTERS. 

main,'  said  Augustine,  '  we  are  going  to  rehearse 
"Le  Lait  d'Anesse" — you  will  act  as  dramatic 
critic.  Sit  there  on  that  sofa.'  I  installed  myself, 
and  the  performance  began.  *They  are  pretty 
good,'  Augustine  Brohan  was  telling  me,  in  a  sub- 
dued tone,  ^but  their  boots — do  you  smell  any- 
thing ? ' 

"  This  intimacy  with  the  wittiest  comedienne 
in  Paris  elevated  me,  as  it  were,  to  the  seventh 
heaven.  I  nodded,  and  smiled  knowingly.  I 
felt  so  happy  that  I  could  scarcely  keep  my 
seat. 

"The  most  insignificant  of  these  details  ap- 
pears, even  to-day,  very  important  to  me.  See, 
however,  how  two  persons  may  view  things  in  a 
different  light.  I  had  told  Sarcey  the  comical 
story  of  my  debut  in  society.  Sarcey,  one  day, 
repeated  it  to  Augustine  Brohan.  Well !  the  un- 
grateful Augustine — whom,  after  all,  I  have  not 
seen  these  last  twenty  years — swore  in  good  faith 
that  she  knew  me  only  through  my  books.  She 
had  forgotten  the  broken  glasses,  the  Wallachian 
prince,  the  rehearsal  of  the  '  Lait  d'Anesse,'  the 
boots  of  the  cuirassiers — everything  concerning 
this  affair  that  has  occupied  so  much  place  in  my 
life." 

As  the  reader  will  easily  infer  from  the  fore- 
going story,  Daudet  shortly  became  a  thorough 
type  of  Pai'isian  Bohemianism.  For  a  living  he 
did  a  little  of  everything,  and  finally  devoted  him- 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET.  233 

self  to  the  profession  of  journalism,  writing  end- 
less articles  at  the  princely  remuneration  of  five 
francs  each. 

It  was  in  1858  that  he  presented  himself  at  the 
editorial  rooms  of  the  "  Figaro."  The  office  of  this 
paper  was  at  that  time  situated  in  the  Hotel  Fras- 
cati,  at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  Yivienne  and  the 
Boulevard  Montmartre — in  the  same  rooms  where 
the  barber  Lespes  has  since  made  a  fortune  by 
shaving  a  whole  host  of  litterateurs^  journalists, 
actors,  and  gentlemen  of  leisure.  Daudet,  a  man- 
uscript under  his  arm,  asked  for  M.  Villemessant. 
He  was  told  to  wait,  and  he  did  so  patiently,  hold- 
ing the  child  of  his  imagination  the  while  with  a 
truly  paternal  solicitude.  Villemessant  finally 
entered,  but  a  storm  was  brewing  on  his  brow. 
He  inquired  for  Paul  D'lvoy,  one  of  the  most  hu- 
morous writers  on  his  staff,  and,  simply  because  he 
had  been  told  by  some  ignoramus,  while  at  break- 
fast, that  the  articles  of  that  contributor  were  be- 
coming stale  and  insipid,  he  peremptorily  dis- 
charged him.  Poor  Daudet,  who  has  often  re- 
lated the  story,  was  discouraged  by  the  editor's 
angry  face,  and  was  seriously  considering  the  ex- 
pediency of  deferring  his  interview,  when  a  clerk 
called  Yillemessant's  attention  to  him.  The  mag- 
nate approached  him,  and,  finding  it  too  late  to 
retreat,  Daudet  mustered  up  his  best  courage,  and 
handed  his  manuscript  to  Villemessant,  after  a 
few  explanatory  words.     Villemessant  scrutinized 


234  FRENCH   MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

him  from  head  to  foot,  and  then  questioned  him, 
as  follows  : 

"  Let  me  see,  young  man,  are  you  really  per- 
suaded that  you  have  a  talent  for  writing  ?  " 

"  I  honestly  do  not  know  whether  I  have.  I 
think,  however,  I  can  write  as  well  as  a  great 
many  newspaper  men." 

Yillemessant  had  been  attentively  examining 
the  manuscript,  while  Daudet  with  equal  care 
studied  his  face,  endeavoring  to  divine  the  deci- 
sion upon  which  his  fate  seemed  to  hang. 

"  I  think  I  shall  take  your  copy,"  said  Yille- 
messant, finally,  having  a  quick  perception  for 
whatever  was  meritorious. 

Daudet  soon  after  this  incident  became  a  tol- 
erably well  known,  if  not  a  famous  author,  Yille- 
messant printing  and  paying  handsomely  for  all 
his  work.  But  his  Bohemian  instincts  overpow- 
ered him  again  and  again,  and,  although  in  receipt 
of  an  income  which  would  have  been  comfort  to 
any  sensible  man,  he  was  frequently  as  badly  off 
as  before. 

His  talents  and  perhaps  his  recklessness  had 
won  for  him  many  friends  among  the  artists  and 
litterateurs  of  the  day.  A  celebrated  sculptor 
had  made  a  life-size  bronze  bust  of  Daudet,  which 
was  pronounced  superb.  The  artist  even  gained 
by  it  an  honorable  mention  at  the  Exhibition  of  the 
Fine  Arts.  This  work  of  art  afterward  ornamented 
the  mantelpiece  of  the  journalist's  room,  and  in 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET.  235 

days  of  distress  it  was  Daudet's  fashion  to  gaze 
ruefully  at  it,  and  say  to  himself,  "  Well,  after 
all,  I  have  still  my  bust."  In  the  language  of 
Bohemia  this  meant  that  he  had  still  some  pecun- 
iary resource  ;  that  when  everything  else  had 
been  disposed  of  by  sale  or  by  pawn,  the  bronze 
bust  yet  remained  to  save  him  from  starving. 
Misery  one  day  knocked  harder  than  usual  at 
Daudet's  door.  He  looked  around  his  room,  and 
saw  that  everything  that  might  move  the  breast 
of  a  pawnbroker  had  gone  ;  the  dies  tree  of  the 
bust  had  arrived.  Without  a  penny  in  the  world, 
Daudet  hired  a  cab,  placed  the  bust  caftfully  in- 
side, and  having  given  the  coachman  the  address 
of  a  certain  art  dealer,  drove  off — sad  with  the 
thought  of  giving  up  the  gift  of  his  friend,  but 
none  the  less  pleased  with  the  prospect  of  shortly 
again  handling  the  money  of  the  realm.  He  made 
a  tour  of  all  the  shops,  asking  at  each  one  : 

"  Will  you  buy  a  handsome  bust  in  bronze  ?  " 

"Who  is  it?" 

"Myself." 

"  Yourself  !  And  will  you  kindly  say  who  you 
are  ?    Are  you  a  celebrity  ?  " 

"Not  yet ;  but  I  hope  to  be  one  some  day." 

"  Call  again  at  that  time,  and  we  will  see." 

After  several  repetitions  of  this  dialogue,  Dau- 
det began  offering  the  bust  as  that  of  Balzac  in 
his  early  youth.  Finally,  he  succeeded  in  selling 
it  for  old  bronze  to  a  junk-dealer  at  the  rate,  we 


236  FRENCH   MEN   OF  LETTERS. 

believe,  of  five  cents  per  pound.  At  the  outset 
Daudet  had  mentally  resolved  to  buy  it  back 
again  at  the  earliest  opportunity;  but  his  re- 
peated failures  to  dispose  of  it  had  so  angered 
him  that  he  compelled  the  purchaser  to  break  it 
into  small  fragments  in  his  presence. 

Out  of  the  price,  twenty-two  francs,  he  was 
obliged  to  pay  ten  to  the  cab-driver.  "Twelve 
francs  for  the  image  of  my  glory  !  "  he  exclaimed, 
almost  sobbing,  on  again  entering  his  room.  He 
buried  his  face  in  the  pillow  of  his  couch,  and  so 
remained  until  the  imperious  demand  of  nature 
sent  him  forth  to  quench  his  grief  with  a  bottle 
of  wine  and  suffocate  it  with  a  hearty  meal. 
They  who  know  him  would  wager  that  on  return- 
ing home  he  did  not  possess  a  sou. 

He  first  began  to  win  celebrity  by  the  publi- 
cation of  the  "  Gueux  de  Provence  "  as  feuilleton 
in  the  "  Figaro."  This  novel  and  "  Le  Petit  Chose," 
which  he  wrote  a  few  years  later,  are  perhaps  the 
books  in  which  he  himself  plays  a  prominent  part. 
In  both  he  pleads  the  cause  of  the  employees  of 
the  provincial  order  and  the  tribe  of  schoolmas- 
ters, and  eloquently  depicts  the  sorrows  and  disa- 
bilities of  country  life.  The  success  of  his  first 
works  won  for  him  the  appointment  of  dramatic 
critic  to  the  "  Journal  Officiel,"  a  position  which 
even  Th^ophile  Gautier  had  not  disdained  to  fill. 
But,  under  the  Empire,  even  a  dramatic  critic  was 
required  to  measure  his  words,  particularly  in  the 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET.  237 

recognized  organ  of  the  Government.  Napoleon 
III.,  in  his  anxiety  to  conciliate  all  the  writers  of 
France,  could  not  permit  the  least  successful  of 
authors  to  be  castigated  under  circumstances  that 
might  reflect  upon  himself.  This  fact  will  ac- 
count for  Daudet's  resignation  after  a  few  months. 
It  may  be  that  he  had  been  induced  to  accept  the 
honor  under  the  same  assurances  of  freedom  of 
speech  which  had  been  offered  to  Gautier. 

In  1861,  at  the  request  of  the  Duke  of  Morny, 
Daudet  was  introduced  to  him.  "  The  poet,"  says 
F61icien  Champsaur,  "  wore  his  hair  very  long,  a 
slouch  hat,  a  huge  jacket,  and  lace  cuffs.  He  was 
at  once  timid  and  independent.  He  would  in  no 
way  dress  according  to  the  common  fashion,  and 
at  the  same  time  he  would  blush  when  some  one 
gazed  at  him  in  the  street.  While  listening  to  the 
Duke  of  Morny,  he  held  his  hat  by  the  lining,  and 
rolled  it  on  his  fingers.  Suddenly  the  hat  fell,  the 
lining  remaining  in  his  hand.  The  Duke  smiled, 
and  offered  the  poet  a  place  in  his  household  as 
one  of  his  private  secretaries." 

Daudet  had  learned  in  the  nursery  to  be  a  Le- 
gitimist. He  feared  to  sell  himself  by  accepting, 
and  frankly  avowed  his  political  opinions  to  the 
Duke.  "Be  whatever  you  like,"  rejoined  the 
Duke;  "  the  Empress  is  a  more  thorough  Legitimist 
than  you  are."  This  declaration  eased  the  poet's 
mind,  and  he  accepted.  He  was  Morny's  secretary 
for  five  years.    The  position,  however,  was  almost 


238  FRENCH   MEN   OF   LETTERS. 

a  sinecure.  He  had  only  to  read  the  newest  books, 
and  point  out  to  his  master  those  that  were  worth 
reading.  His  main  occupation  was  to  obtain  leaves 
of  absence,  which  were  never  refused.  He  visited 
Corsica,  Sardinia,  and  Provence.  During  his  so- 
journ on  the  coast  of  the  latter,  he  lived  in  a  light- 
house, the  same  that  he  has  so  beautifully  de- 
scribed in  his  "  Lettres  de  Mon  Moulin." 

The  new  position  raised  the  poet  beyond  the 
pressure  of  poverty  ;  but  his  aristocratic  surround- 
ings did  not  cure  him  of  his  Bohemianism.  The 
efforts  of  the  Duke's  chef  de  cabinet^  who  took 
great  interest  in  the  new  secretary,  could  not 
wholly  reform  him.  He  was  evidently  out  of 
place  among  the  nobility,  and  he  even  frequently 
failed  to  keep  his  appointments  at  the  gilded  bou- 
doirs of  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain  in  order  to 
share  in  the  orgies  of  the  Rue  Breda,  or  to  pass 
the  evening  at  his  lodgings  in  the  Rue  Majorine, 
in  tete-d'tete  with  some  hieroglyphic  of  the  demi- 
monde. The  Duke,  however,  who  was  a  thorough 
man  of  the  world,  set  a  high  value  upon  the  intel- 
lectual gifts  of  his  secretary,  and,  knowing  that 
despite  his  shortcomings  he  could  not  easily  re- 
place him,  bore  with  his  eccentricities. 

The  reasons  that  brought  about  Daudet's  res- 
ignation, some  time  before  the  Duke's  death,  have 
been  variously  reported.  That  the  fault,  howev- 
er, was  on  the  Duke's  side  is  doubtful.  Such  was 
his  generosity  that,  at   one  time,  when  Daudet 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET.  239 

was  severely  ill,  he  sent  him  at  his  own  expense 
to  Algiers  and  to  Egypt,  and  maintained  him 
there  until  his  sickness  had  yielded  to  the  benefi- 
cial effects  of  the  new  climate.  Daudet,  it  must 
be  confessed,  rewarded  his  patron's  kindness  with 
the  ingratitude  of  a  vulgar  soul.  He  made  him 
the  hero  of  his  novel,  the  "N^abab,"  with  which 
our  readers  are  familiar.  The  Duke  of  Morny, 
certainly  a  pronounced  type  of  the  corrupt  aristo- 
crat of  the  Second  Empire,  deserved  the  cutting 
satire  of  the  "  Nabab  "  ;  but  Daudet,  who  had  ex- 
perienced his  liberality  in  many  ways,  was  the  last 
man  to  sit  in  judgment  on  his  errors  and  misdeeds. 
Daudet,  however,  as  if  to  display  another  strange 
contradiction  in  his  character,  has  not  been  un- 
grateful to  every  one.  When  Villemessant  died, 
he  devoted  to  his  memory  a  few  pages  which  are 
the  highest  utterances  of  gratitude,  as  his  "  Let- 
tres  de  Mon  Moulin  "  are  the  last  words  of  patri- 
otism. 

Daudet's  novels  speak  for  themselves,  but  his 
dramas  are  not  so  well  known  here.  "  L'Idole," 
"  L'Oeillet  Bleu,"  "  Les  Absents,"  and,  finally,  the 
adaptation  of  "  Fromont  Jeune  et  Risler  Aine," 
which  was  concocted  in  collaboration  with  Adolphe 
Belot,  although  scarcely  worthy  of  the  high  rep- 
utation they  enjoy,  are  undoubtedly  characterized 
by  qualities  which  can  not  but  charm  the  reader. 
The  "Masque  de  Fer,"  a  pseudonym  for  the 
dramatic  critic  of  "Figaro,"  tells  an  amusing 
16 


240  FRENCH  MEN   OF  LETTERS. 

Story  in  connection  with  the  dramatization  of 
"Fromont  Jeune  et  Risler  Aine."  When  pro- 
duced at  the  Vaudeville,  the  latter  attracted  more 
attention  than  any  other  recent  drama,  the  novel 
having  previously  popularized  the  play.  Every- 
body had  some  favorite  episode  which  it  was 
hoped  would  receive  scenic  representation.  All 
that  was  known  was  that  the  catastrophe  of  the 
novel  had  been  altered,  and  expectation  was  raised 
to  the  highest  pitch.  The  authors  were  for  a  long 
time  uncertain  whether  to  offer  the  public  that 
which  in  stage  language  is  termed  a  "  happy " 
ending,  or  to  follow  the  story  through  its  natural 
development.  They  were  observed  walking  in 
the  park  of  the  "  Maisons  Lafitte,"  where  Belot 
possesses  a  charming  cottage,  and  discussing  with 
earnestness  the  as  yet  doubtful  death  of  the  hero- 
ine. 

"  I  don't  want  her  to  die  !  "  Belot  exclaimed, 
excitedly. 

"But  why   not?"   Daudet    rejoined.     "She 

"Her  death  is  far  from  suiting  our  purposes." 

"I  can  not  agree  with  you." 

This  intrinsically  innocent  dialogue  was  over- 
heard by  some  dilettante  in  espionage,  who  did 
not  know  the  playwi'ights,  and  who  betook  him- 
self straightway  to  the  police  with  the  informa- 
tion that  a  murder  was  under  discussion.  Gen- 
darmes were  sent  for  the  supposed  assassins,  who 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET.  241 

heartily  enjoyed  the  blank  amazement  of  the  ac- 
cuser and  the  police  when  the  situation  was  ex- 
plained. 

Belot  at  last  triumphed.  Sidonie  lived,  much 
to  the  disgust  of  Daudet,  who,  like  all  good  nov- 
elists, likes  to  have  a  catastrophe  as  the  natural 
sequence  of  his  plot.  We  are  here  reminded  of 
a  similar  anecdote  in  which  Xavier  de  Montepin 
figures.  When  his  "  Mari  de  Marguerite "  was 
drawing  to  a  close  in  "  Figaro,"  the  readers  fore- 
saw that  the  heroine  was  doomed  to  death,  and  the 
novelist  daily  received  some  letter  entreating  him 
not  to  kill  her.  This  vexed  Montepin  beyond 
measure,  and  after  reading  each  successive  appeal, 
he  would  exclaim,  "  The  idiots — do  they  fancy 
that  killing  her  is  not  painful  to  me  also  ?  But 
there  is  no  other  issue.  She  must  die."  And  she 
did  die. 

When  the  piece  of  Messrs.  Daudet  and  Belot 
was  produced,  it  was  greeted  with  enthusiastic 
applause.  The  authors,  who  had  unconcernedly 
passed  their  time  listening  to  the  music  of  "La 
Petite  Marine,"  did  not  drop  into  the  theatre  un- 
til near  the  close  of  the  performance. 

With  the  production  of  "La  Dernier  Idole" 
is  connected  an  anecdote  which  reveals  Daudet's 
modesty  and  severity  in  regard  to  his  own  per- 
formances, as  well  as  his  eccentricity.  While  Dau- 
det was  in  Egypt,  the  play  was  announced  for  a 
certain   evening  at  the  Odeon.     A  fancy  seized 


242  FRENCH   MEN   OF  LETTERS. 

him  to  witness  it,  and  in  spite  of  the  infirmities 
which  a  Bohemian  life  had  entailed  upon  him,  he 
started  for  Paris,  where  he  arrived  in  the  nick  of 
time.  While  the  audience  gave  way  to  successive 
outbursts  of  approval,  he  felt  ashamed  that  he  had 
done  no  better,  and  left  the  theatre,  exclaiming, 
"What  a  fool  I  was  to  come  all  the  way  from 
Egypt  to  witness  such  a  piece  of  nonsense  !  Hence- 
forward I  will  be  contented  with  hearing  what 
other  people  say  of  my  productions." 

Daudet  is  one  of  Gambetta's  oldest  friends, 
their  intimacy  dating  from  the  time  when  the 
statesman  was  only  an  excitable  lawyer  of  some 
promise.  The  friendship  sprang  up  in  a  modest 
hotel  where,  like  Gambetta,  Daudet  lived  many 
months  after  fortune  began  to  smile  upon  him, 
and  where  he  used  to  entertain  a  crowd  of  future 
celebrities  who  delighted  in  the  name  of  Bohe- 
mians. Here  met  his  brother  Ernest,  Rochefort, 
and  others,  to  discuss  politics  over  a  repast  and 
a  couple  of  glasses  of  absinthe.  Although  not 
wholly  above  blame,  these  dinners  must  be  le- 
niently remembered  as  the  trysting-place  of  the 
future  apostles  of  the  third  Republic.  In  1877, 
at  a  dinner  at  Ville  D'Avray,  Gambetta  and  Dau- 
det, after  many  years  of  separation,  met  again. 
They  recalled  the  old  days,  and  the  result  of  their 
interview  was  that  Gambetta  purchased  a  cottage 
not  far  distant  from  that  of  his  friend. 

Daudet  is  as  singular  a  man  physically  as  he 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET.  243 

is  morally.  He  is  slim,  rather  undersized,  and  his 
peculiarly  shaped  head  everywhere  rivets  atten- 
tion. Large  of  itself,  it  is  rendered  still  larger  by 
a  heavy  mass  of  raven  locks  which  fall  upon  his 
shoulders.  His  complexion  is  of  bronze,  and  his 
scanty,  silky  beard,  which  he  wears  in  the  Mau- 
giron  style,  gives  his  face  a  strange  Moorish  aspect. 
Regnault  has  called  him  the  "Arabian  Christ." 
His  sight  is  so  wretchedly  short  as  to  have  be- 
come a  by-word  among  his  friends.  They  say 
that  Daudet  could  not  even  sleep  without  having 
an  eye-glass  inserted  in  the  cavity  of  his  eye.  He 
once  followed  a  priest,  because  some  of  his  friends 
had  told  him  that  it  was  a  widow  with  whom  he 
was  very  much  in  love.  On  another  occasion,  at 
the  Jardin  des  Plantes,  he  threw  pieces  of  bread 
to  a  gentleman  wrapped  in  heavy  furs,  mistaking 
him  for  a  bear.  He  is,  however,  the  first  to  laugh 
whenever  a  friend  plays  upon  him  some  practical 
joke,  the  cause  of  which  is  his  shortcoming.  He 
merely  retaliates  by  a  free  use  of  his  satirical  gifts. 
His  wit  cuts,  indeed,  like  a  razor.  He  is  bitter 
against  all  mere  pretenders  to  talent.  He  is,  how- 
ever, kind  to  every  one  he  meets,  and  has  never 
been  known  to  turn  his  back  upon  a  friend  in  dis- 
tress. While  no  longer  a  Bohemian,  he  has  pre- 
served the  best  quality  of  the  Bohemians,  the 
camaraderie  for  all  that  suffer  and  are  needy. 

Up  to  last  year  Alphonse  Daudet  lived  in  the 
Rue  des  Yosges,  in  a  house  which  owed  its  celeb- 


244  FRENCH   MEN   OF  LETTERS. 

rity  to  its  having  been  formerly  the  residence  of 
the  great  jurist  Lamoignon.  Its  description  may 
be  found  in  "  Un  Reveillon  dans  le  Marais,"  one 
of  Daudet's  short  stories,  collected  in  his  "  Contes 
du  Lundi."  He  now  resides  in  the  Avenue  de 
I'Observatoire,  and  from  the  windows  of  his  house 
he  enjoys  a  magnificent  sight  of  the  Gardens  of 
the  Luxemburg.  His  summers  he  spends  at  Cham- 
prosay,  a  coquettish  little  village  overlooking  the 
Seine  on  one  side  and  the  historical  forest  of  Senart 
on  the  other.  A  day  spent  with  him  at  Champro- 
say  can  never  be  forgotten  by  any  one  who  is  a 
lover  of  high  art  and  literature. 


tMILE  ZOLA. 

I  WELL  remember  a  modest  house,  bearing  the 
number  35,  in  "Via  della  Pescheria"  (Fishmar- 
ket  Street),  at  Trieste.  Although  it  had  no  strik- 
ing peculiarities,  I  could  not  forbear  looking  at 
it  whenever  I  passed  by  on  my  way  to  the  mag- 
nificent harbor.  It  was  pointed  out  to  me  as 
the  former  residence  of  the  engineer  Zola,  who 
had  long  lived  abroad,  successfully  practicing 
his  profession  in  various  countries.  Francesco 
Zola  was  called  to  Paris  to  assist  in  directing  the 
work  being  done  on  the  fortifications  around  the 
city.  Here  he  married,  and  here  Emile  was  bom, 
in  1840.     Three  years  later,  the  city  of  Aix  se- 


l^MILE  ZOLA.  245 

cured  the  services  of  the  engineer  Zola,  and  the 
family  removed  thither.  There  his  name  is  still 
linked  with  some  important  hydraulic  works,  such 
as  the  Aix  Canal,  for  example.  The  drawings 
thereof  now  ornament  the  walls  of  the  realistic 
novelist's  study.  The  ability  of  the  engineer  may 
have  been  acknowledged,  but  his  right  to  be  paid 
for  his  labor  was  not.  Emile  was  only  seven  years 
old  when  his  father  died  of  grief,  caused  by  the 
financial  embarrassment  in  which  his  lawsuits  had 
involved  him.  His  wife,  being  then  at  Paris, 
placed  her  fatherless  child  in  the  College  of  Louis 
le  Grand.  The  boy  was  making  a  golden  record 
for  diligence,  industry,  and  proficiency  in  his 
studies  when  the  widow's  last  hope — the  favor- 
able issue  of  a  lawsuit — vanished,  and  she  was 
obliged  to  take  him  from  college.  The  poor 
woman,  however,  worked  night  and  day,  and  con- 
tinued to  educate  her  son  as  well  as  she  could. 
Whoever  has  an  idea  how  poorly  needlework  is 
paid  in  Paris  will  appreciate  the  struggles  of  that 
noble  mother.  ^iSmile  understood  them  well,  and, 
though  still  but  a  lad,  he  so  earnestly  endeavored 
to  get  something  to  do  that  he  finally  secured  a 
position  in  the  Custom-house,  with  a  salary  of 
seventeen  dollars  per  month. 

As  was  the  case  with  many  young  men  at  that 
time,  Victor  Hugo  was  Zola's  ideal.  He  knew  all 
his  poems  by  heart.  There  was  not  a  more  thor- 
ough  romancer  than  ^fimile.     His  liking  for  Hugo 


246  FRENCH   MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

bordered  on  veneration,  and  he  was  never  as  hap- 
py as  when,  in  the  evening,  he  read  for  his  mother 
from  the  "  Odes  and  Ballads  "  or  the  "  Orientales," 
which,  despite  all  that  may  be  said  in  praise  of 
his  subsequent  works,  will  be  considered  by  many 
as  the  poet's  masterpieces.  Later  in  life,  when 
Zola  began  to  read  meditatively,  his  favorite 
authors  were  Musset,  Balzac,  Fluabert,  and  Taine. 
From  the  latter  he  derived  that  quiet,  firm,  and 
methodical  analysis  which  constitutes  his  power. 
But  owing  to  some  change  in  the  Custom-house 
administration,  the  unfortunate  ^iSmile  was  dis- 
missed. He  wandered  through  Paris  aimlessly, 
and  unmindful  of  all  that  was  going  on  around 
him.  He  would  often  pass  a  whole  day  sitting 
on  a  bench  in  the  Garden  of  the  Luxembourg, 
writing  verses,  while  his  pocket  and  stomach  were 
empty.  One  winter  day,  as  he  was  seated  in  the 
Pantheon  square,  a  girl  with  whom  he  was  ac- 
quainted approached  him.  Her  teeth  were  chat- 
tering with  cold. 

"  I  haven't  a  sou."  said  she,  "  and  have  eaten 
nothing  for  the  last  twenty-four  hours." 

"Neither  have  I,"  replied  Zola.  He  thought 
a  while,  and  then,  taking  off  his  coat,  and  handing 
it  to  her,  he  added  :  "  Take  this  to  the  Mont  de 
Piet6.  You  will  at  least  be  able  to  get  enough 
on  it  to  buy  something  for  dinner." 

He  returned  to  his  garret  in  his  shirt-sleeves. 
He  had  parted  with  his  only  winter  coat. 


Mile  zola.  247 

Some  time  afterward,  thanks  to  the  exertion 
of  his  father's  friends,  he  obtained  a  situation  as 
a  shipping  clerk  and  packer  in  Hachette's  pub- 
lishing house,  at  a  salary  of  twelve  hundred 
francs  a  year,  which  seemed  to  him  almost  a 
princely  income.  Meanwhile  the  sight  of  books 
again  awakened  his  literary  aspirations.  He  made 
packages  during  the  day,  and  devoted  the  greater 
part  of  the  night  to  writing  poetry.  Once  he  ven- 
tured to  speak  of  his  literary  productions  to  the 
head  of  the  firm.  M.  Hachette  had  uncommon 
learning,  and  was  generally  unprejudiced,  but  he 
had  his  own  opinion  of  the  possibility  of  being  at 
once  a  good  packer  and  a  poet,  and  bade  Zola  take 
his  choice  between  keeping  his  place  and  worship- 
ing the  muses.  Hunger  had  rendered  Zola  a 
practical  man  ;  he  gave  up  poetry,  and  was  soon 
advanced  to  the  position  of  advertising  clerk  of 
the  house,  with  a  salary  of  three  thousand  francs. 
But  by  being  brought  into  contact  with  advertis- 
ing agents  and  journalists,  his  literary  longings 
asserted  their  sway  upon  his  mind  with  greater 
strength  than  ever.  He  wrote  and  published 
"  Les  Contes  de  Ninon."  It  is  hardly  necessary 
to  state  that  his  publisher  was  not  Hachette.  The 
book  brought  him  at  once  into  public  notice.  He 
improved  the  opportunity,  and  sought  employment 
on  the  staff  of  the  "  Figaro."  Editor  Villemes- 
sant,  ever  ready  to  recognize  and  encourage  tal- 
ent, made  him  book  reviewer.     The  event  was 


248  FRENCH   MEN   OF  LETTERS. 

celebrated  by  Zola  witli  a  banquet,  which  will 
long  occupy  a  place  in  the  annals  of  Yaugirard 
Street,  where  he  lived.  In  a  brilliant  speech  he 
said  that  he  considered  his  entry  into  journalism 
as  his  "  deliverance  from  bureaucratic  servitude  "; 
and  he  might  have  added,"  from  romance."  Trans- 
formation was  never  more  complete.  Zola  threw 
himself  into  the  fight  against  all  manner  of  ideal- 
ism, with  the  fire  of  a  Southerner  and  the  stubborn- 
ness of  a  Northerner.  Never  has  a  man  been  more 
consistent  in  battling  for  what  he  believed  to  be 
the  truth.  There  is  not  a  single  word  in  all  he 
has  written  that  is  at  variance  with  the  most  dar- 
ing realism,  or,  as  he  calls  it,  naturalism. 

"  Here  is  his  greatest  merit,"  De  Amicis  says. 
"  He  has  dashed  to  the  ground  with  one  blow  all 
the  toilet  articles  of  literature,  and  has  washed 
with  a  cloth  of  unbleached  linen  the  bedizened 
face  of  Truth.  He  has  written  the  first  popular 
novel  in  which  the  people  are  pictured  as  they 
really  are.  If,  in  accomplishing  his  object,  he  has 
perhaps  overstepped  the  limits  of  true  art,  he  has 
nevertheless  sho\\ai  us  much  that  is  new — new 
forms,  new  colors,  new  shadings — much,  in  short, 
from  which  others  may  profit,  though  they  have 
very  different  aims  in  view." 

It  will  not  be  amiss  to  investigate  under  what 
circumstances  this  radical  change  came  about. 
Flaubert  had  already  obtained  an  enormous  suc- 
cess by  his  "  Mademoiselle  Bovary."     Those  Sia- 


EMILE  ZOLA.  249 

mese  twins  of  French  literature,  the  brothers 
Goncourt,  with  their  "  Germinie  Lacerteux,"  had 
gone  a  step  further  toward  the  theory  that  every- 
thing in  nature  is  worth  artistic  representation, 
and  that  the  improvement  of  the  human  race  does 
not  depend  on  the  idealization  of  life,  but  on  its 
faithful  reproduction,  especially  as  regards  its 
lowest  and  more  disgusting  features.  Their  books 
were  read  with  avidity.  Realism  made  every  day 
new  adepts  in  all  branches  of  art.  Cezanne,  a 
painter  whose  daring  surpassed  even  Courbet's, 
attracted  public  attention,  though  his  paintings 
were  invariably  rejected  by  the  Salon,  chiefly  on 
account  of  their  obscenity.  Cezanne  painted  any- 
thing that  happened  to  fall  under  his  eyes.  Ma- 
net, who  has  since  attained  the  reputation  of  a 
clever  artist,  pushed  naturalism  in  painting  to  its 
utmost  limits,  ridiculing  the  ideal,  scoffing  at  the 
great  masters,  slavishly  copying  nature,  and  dis- 
daining to  admit  within  the  compass  of  art  any- 
thing but  the  materialistic  surface  of  things.  All 
these  men  were  Zola's  intimate  friends,  to  the  list 
of  which  should  be  added  Courbet,  Duranty,  and 
Alphonse  Daudet.  Although  the  latter  belonged 
to  another  school,  he  sympathized  with  the  new 
impulse  that  all  these  hot-headed  young  men  im- 
pressed upon  art.  He  saw  no  reason  why  the 
lower  strata  of  society  should  not  have  their  poet 
and  novelist,  and  why  they  should  be  beautified 
with  an  idealism  that  they  were  far  from  possess- 


250  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

ing.  !fimile  Zola  had  actually  lived  among  the 
poorer  classes  of  Paris.  He  had  more  than  one 
opportunity  to  perceive  that  the  other  novelists, 
even  the  truest,  had  not  painted  life  such  as  it  is. 
Prejudice  and  imagination  had  thrown  a  veil  be- 
tween the  writer  and  reality.  "  Between  their  rep- 
resentations of  human  character  and  reality  there 
was  the  same  difference  as  between  a  portrait  on 
canvas  and  the  reflection  of  a  human  face  in  a 
mirror."  He  thought  that  the  time  had  come  to 
tell  the  truth — the  naked  truth.  What  else  was 
required  to  render  Zola  a  thorough  realist  ?  He 
became  the  standard-bearer  of  this  school.  His 
friends  fought  their  battles  by  writing  novels  and 
painting — Zola  by  writing  for  the  daily  press. 
Being  the  most  exposed  to  blows,  he  became  the 
most  violent  of  the  band.  He  hacked  and  hewed 
as  Cassagnac  has  done  in  behalf  of  Bonapartism, 
and  Rochefort  in  defense  of  Socialism  and  Com- 
munism. In  1867  Zola  was  charged  with  writing 
the  review  of  the  Salon  for  "  Figaro."  His  first 
article  aroused  a  regular  storm.  The  battle  in- 
toxicated him,  and  he  made  a  butchery  of  all  the 
idols  of  the  French  artistic  world.  Even  the  "  Fi- 
garo," which  has  ever  been  open  to  the  boldest 
assertions,  was  obliged  to  bow  to  public  opinion, 
and  Zola  was  ordered  to  suspend  his  "  Salon  "  af- 
ter the  appearance  of  his  fourth  article. 

Discharged  by  Villemessant,  he  had  a  great 
deal  of  trouble  to  get  anything  to  do.     This  was 


fiMILE   ZOLA.  251 

the  most  trying  period  of  his  life.  It  was  then 
that  he  had  the  opportunity  to  make  those  deep 
and  sad  studies  of  the  lower  Parisian  classes 
which  figure  in  "  L'Assommoir  "  and  in  "  Ventre 
de  Paris."  There  he  studied  vice  and  hunger, 
worked,  suffered,  lost  heart,  and  struggled  on 
bravely.  Zola  next  wrote  for  other  newspapers  ; 
but  the  violence  of  his  attacks  upon  any  literary 
man  or  artist  who  did  not  side  with  him  rendered 
a  long  connection  with  any  of  them  impossible. 
His  article,  "  The  Morrow  After  the  Crisis,"  pub- 
lished in  "  Le  Corsaire,"  caused  the  paper  to  be 
suppressed.  Zola  perceived  that  the  day  was 
drawing  near  when  his  articles  would  be  declined 
by  almost  every  paper  in  Paris.  The  success  he 
had  obtained  by  a  few  novels,  such  as  "  Le  Yoeu 
d'une  Morte"  (1866),  and  "The  Mysteries  of 
Marseilles,"  in  the  style  of  the  famous  "Mys- 
teries of  Paris,"  by  Sue  (1869),  encouraged  him 
to  seek  a  source  of  revenue  that  would  insure  him 
against  want  for  years  to  come,  and  enable  him 
to  carry  out  a  plan  which  he  had  long  contem- 
plated. The  idea  of  writing  a  series  of  physio- 
logical romances  first  suggested  itself  to  his  mind 
while  he  was  writing  "  Madeleine  Ferat,"  a  novel 
which  hinges  upon  an  incident  in  the  life  of  a  girl 
of  which  the  author  had  been  a  witness.  Being 
abandoned  by  the  man  she  loves,  the  girl,  after 
some  time,  marries  another,  and  has,  later  on,  a 
child  who  is  a  likeness  of  her  first  lover.     From 


252  FRENCH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

that  moment  the  plan  of  a  vast  work  of  fiction 
illustrating  physiological  problems  flashed  through 
his  mind,  and  he  traced  at  once  the  genealogical 
tree  that  he  has  called  "  Page  d' Amour."  Accord- 
ingly, he  went  to  see  the  publisher  Lacroix,  and 
offered  to  wi'ite  for  him  a  series  of  twenty  novels 
illustrating  the  life  of  the  Second  Empire.  The  bar- 
gain was  concluded  upon  the  following  basis  :  Zola 
was  to  receive  five  hundred  francs  a  month  for 
ten  years,  and  was  yearly  to  deliver  the  copy  for 
two  novels,  which  were  to  become  the  publisher's 
absolute  property  for  ten  years  from  publication. 
Zola  was  thus  enabled  to  realize  the  dream  of  his 
life — to  retire  to  the  country,  and  live  like  a  peace- 
ful farmer  in  a  cottage  surrounded  by  chickens 
and  rabbits.  The  warlike  novelist,  who,  like  a 
raving  iconoclast,  is  never  tired  of  breaking  the 
images  of  the  old  beliefs,  abhors  noise,  and  is  a 
hermit  by  temperament.  The  life  of  his  predi- 
lection was  seriously  endangered  by  the  dissolu- 
tion of  the  Lacroix  firm  when  only  two  volumes 
of  the  now  famous  series,  "Les  Rougon-Mac- 
quart,"  had  been  issued  ;  but  the  enterprising 
young  Charpentier  had  succeeded  his  father  in 
the  management  of  his  well-known  publishing 
house,  and  he  offered  to  carry  out  the  treaty  that 
Zola  had  signed  with  Lacroix.  At  the  end  of 
three  years,  however,  Zola  owed  his  publisher  ten 
thousand  francs.  He  had  regularly  drawn  his 
salary,  but,  habitually  working  very  slowly,  had 


ifiMILE   ZOLA.  253 

failed  to  deliver  tlie  required  number  of  volumes. 
He  was  requested  to  call  upon  the  publisher,  and 
expected  a  rebuke,  but  was  greeted  with  the  fol- 
lowing words  :  "  I  make  a  good  deal  of  money- 
out  of  your  novels.  I  will  not  take  advantage  of 
a  contract  that  you  were  compelled  to  sign  by 
necessity.  Let  us  sign  a  new  one,  to  which  I  will 
give  a  retroactive  effect.  Not  only  you  owe  me 
nothing,  but  it  is  I  who  owe  you  ten  thousand 
francs.  Here  is  the  money."  According  to  the 
new  contract,  Zola  receives  a  royalty  upon  the 
sale  of  his  books.  His  yearly  income,  taking  into 
consideration  his  pay  for  articles  that  he  sends  to 
a  Russian  review,  now  averages  twenty  thousand 
francs.  It  was  Turguenieff  who  procured  for 
him  the  place  as  literary  correspondent  for  the 
Russian  review. 

Notwithstanding  his  fierce  way  of  writing, 
Zola  is  eminently  good-natured,  ever  ready  to 
render  service  to  his  friends,  steadfast  and  loving, 
and,  above  all,  orderly  in  his  habits.  As  regards 
his  private  life,  he  has  been  compared  to  a  saintly 
country  priest.  "His  existence,"  writes  Albert 
Wolff,  "  glides  on,  even,  monotonous,  unvaried. 
He  rises  always  at  the  same  hour,  installs  himself 
before  his  writing  desk,  takes  up  the  novel  he  has 
in  hand,  and  writes  every  morning  the  same  num- 
ber of  pages,  just  as  a  clerk  would  do  his  busi- 
ness correspondence.  He  is  never  overwhelmed 
by  fits  of  laziness  or  by  an  unusual  desire  to  work. 


254  FRENCH  MEN   OF  LETTERS. 

This  Southerner  is  as  cold  as  a  Laplander.  He 
never  leaves  anything  to  chance.  Inspii-ation 
obeys  him  at  the  needed  moment.  He  never 
overworks  her,  but  she  owes  him  a  certain  num- 
ber of  lines  every  day,  and  he  must  have  them. 
His  day's  work  is  divided  into  two  parts.  The 
morning  belongs  to  the  novelist,  and  the  after- 
noon to  the  journalist.  When  the  clock  strikes 
twelve,  he  goes  to  his  luncheon,  the  eating  of 
which  is  one  of  his  grave  occupations.  He  is  a 
great  eater.  Luncheon  being  over,  he  invariably 
takes  a  nap.  He  awakes  a  journalist,  and  pro- 
ceeds just  as  methodically  to  write  either  his  dra- 
matic criticisms,  in  which  he  tears  to  pieces  all 
the  plays  that  have  been  produced  during  the 
week,  or  the  critical  essays  that  he  monthly  sends 
to  the  Russian  review.  The  one  on  French  nov- 
elists is  not  yet  forgotten.  When  he  is  reproached 
for  the  violence  of  his  attacks,  he  wonders  that 
people  can  get  angry  at  him,  and  coolly  answers, 
*They  may  write  anything  they  wish  about  my 
works,  and  I  have  a  right  to  say  of  others  all  that 
I  think.'"  I  can  not  understand,  in  fact,  why 
the  majority  of  critics  should  be  so  bitter  against 
him,  his  right  to  build  up  a  new  order  of  fiction 
being  granted.  His  principles  may  be  faulty  ; 
perhaps  his  talent  might  have  shone  more  bril- 
liantly had  he  dealt  with  subjects  less  revolting, 
but  it  is  doubtful  whether  he  would  have  attained 
his  professed  object,  which  is  the  reform  of  the 


^MILE  ZOLA.  255 

lowest  classes  of  French  society,  had  he  stopped 
short  of  that  vivid  and  thorough  picture  which 
he  presents  of  their  vices. 

!lSmile  Zola,  in  the  opinion  of  many  critics,  so  far 
from  being  immoral,  is  the  most  moral  of  French 
novelists.  "  He  makes  us  smell  the  odor  of  vice,  not 
its  perfume,"  Edmondo  De  Amicis  says  of  him. 
"His  nude  figures  are  those  of  the  anatomical 
table,  which  do  not  inspire  the  slightest  immoral 
thought.  There  is  not  one  of  his  books,  not  even 
the  crudest,  that  does  not  leave  in  the  soul,  pure, 
firm,  and  immutable,  the  aversion  or  scorn  for  the 
base  passions  of  which  he  treats.  Brutally,  piti- 
lessly, and  without  hypocrisy  he  exposes  vice,  and 
holds  it  up  to  ridicule,  standing  so  far  off  from 
it  that  he  does  not  touch  it  with  his  garments. 
Forced  by  his  hand,  it  is  vice  itself  that  says, 
*  Detest  me,  and  pass  by.'  The  scandal  which 
comes  from  his  novels  is  only  for  the  eyes  and 
ears.  .  .  .  All  who  take  up  for  the  first  time  the 
novels  of  Zola  must  conquer  a  feeling  of  repug- 
nance. Then,  whatever  be  the  final  judgment 
pronounced  upon  the  writer,  one  is  glad  that  he 
has  read  his  works,  and  arrives  at  the  conclusion 
that  he  ought  to  have  done  so.  .  .  .  It  is  like 
finding  truth  for  the  first  time.  Certain  it  is  that, 
no  matter  how  strong  one  is,  or  whether  he  has  le 
nez  solide,  like  Gervaise  at  the  hospital,  some- 
times he  must  spring  back  as  if  from  a  sudden 
whiff  of  foul  air.  But  even  at  these  points, 
17 


256  FRENCH   MEN   OF  LETTERS. 

though  in  the  act  of  protesting  violently,  ^  This  is 
too  much  ! '  there  is  a  devil  in  us  which  laughs 
and  frolics  and  enjoys  itself  hugely  at  our  dis- 
comfiture." 

Zola,  for  two  or  three  weeks  at  a  time,  will 
never  pass  the  threshold  of  the  garden  that  envi- 
rons his  house  in  the  Rue  de  Boulogne,  where  he 
lives  with  his  mother,  his  wife,  and  his  two  little 
girls.  He  seldom  goes  into  society,  malicious  peo- 
ple say,  on  account  of  his  ugliness  and  conversa- 
tional dullness,  which  expose  him  to  unfavorable 
comparison  with  many  literary  men  not  half  so 
clever  as  he.  The  true  reason  probably  is  that  he 
considers  it  an  intolerable  drudgery  to  conform 
his  mind  and  manners  to  the  conventionality  by 
which  society  is  governed.  He  accepts  no  invi- 
tation to  dinner  but  from  his  friend  Charpentier. 
When  the  conversation  grows  lively,  he  becomes 
restless.  As  soon  as  he  can  leave  the  table,  he  re- 
tires to  some  lonely  room,  stretches  himself  in  an 
arm-chair,  and  soon  sleeps  his  epicurean  nap.  He 
must  have  at  least  twelve  hours  of  sleep  every 
day,  or  he  does  not  feel-  like  himself.  If  he  pays 
no  visits,  he  loves  to  have  his  friends  at  his  house. 
His  dearest  friend  was  the  late  Gustave  Flau- 
bert. His  most  assiduous  visitors  are  Daudet, 
Goncourt,  Manet,  and  a  few  young  men  of  his 
school.  Once  a  month  Turguenieff,  Flaubert,  Zola, 
and  Goncourt  used  to  take  breakfast  together. 
Every  time  they  did  so,  a  discussion  on  the  lit- 


l^MILE  ZOLA.  257 

erary  merit  of  some  Frencli  classic  author  arose, 
which  "  kept  them  chained  to  the  table  for  half 
the  day."  Zola  has  a  sort  of  veneration  for 
Flaubert,  whom  he  recognizes  as  his  master.  He 
claims  for  himself  only  the  secondary  rdle  of 
standard-bearer,  and  surely  no  one  is  more  apt 
to  defend  it  than  he.  If  he  has  sowed  death 
around  him,  it  has  been  rather  to  bring  into  re- 
lief the  figures  of  his  friends  than  his  own.  He 
had  been  accused  of  vanity  and  presumption, 
and  of  building  his  reputation  on  the  ruins  of 
others.  He  refuted  the  charge,  in  a  letter  to 
Albert  Wolff  of  the  "  Figaro,"  from  the  columns 
of  which  the  attack  was  directed  against  him,  in 
an  article  entitled  "  The  Dream  of  M.  Zola." 

"  Medan,  December  23,  1878. 

"Then,  my  fellow  brother  of  the  press,  you 
think  that  I  am  extremely  vain  ?  That  it  is  my 
vanity  which  dictates  my  pages,  and  that  I  ex- 
terminate my  fellow  writers  in  order  to  make  a 
tabula  rasa  around  myself  ?  A  fine  insinuation 
this  that  you  throw  before  the  public. 

"  Let  us  reason  a  little. 

"  Is  my  frankness  that  of  an  ambitious  man  ? 
Do  you  think  I  am  so  na'ive  as  not  to  foresee  that, 
by  saying  aloud  what  others  are  content  to 
whisper,  I  shut  all  doors  against  myself  ?  To  fol- 
low such  a  business  one  must  have   wholly  re- 


258  FRENCH   MEN   OF   LETTERS. 

nounced  recompenses  and  honors.  If  one  wants 
to  reign,  he  must  have  more  suppleness. 

"You  have  described  the  dream  of  Victor 
Hugo,  or  the  dream  of  Courbet,  but  not  the 
dream  of  Zola.  Victor  Hugo  and  Courbet  are 
the  two  types  of  the  hypertrophied  personality  of 
the  man  who,  for  lack  of  criticism,  has  passed 
into  a  god.  As  for  me,  I  am  but  the  soldier  of 
an  idea — of  a  fixed  idea,  if  you  will.  I  judge 
painters,  dramatic  authors,  romancers,  always 
from  the  same  standpoint ;  hence  all  this  scream- 
ing. 

"  I,  alas  !  am  not  so  strong  as  you  seem  to  think 
me.  I  pass  whole  weeks  in  the  belief  that  I  am  an 
idiot,  and  in  the  desire  of  tearing  up  my  manu- 
scripts. No  man  is  more  harassed  by  doubt  of 
himself.  I  work,  but  in  a  fever,  and  in  continual 
fear  that  I  shall  not  satisfy  myself.  Devotedly 
yours,  ]S.  Zola." 

No  authors  have  been  more  roughly  handled 
by  Zola  than  the  luminous  stars  of  the  French 
stage — Dumas,  Feuillet,  and  Sardou.  Sara  Bern- 
hardt, an  earnest  admirer  of  his  works,  once  intro- 
duced him  to  Perrin,  the  amiable  director  of  the 
Comedie  Fran9aise. 

"  Well,  my  dear  Zola,"  said  Perrin,  tapping 
the  novelist's  shoulder,  "I  read  your  dramatic 
criticisms  with  great  interest,  and  perhaps  you 
are  sometimes  right  when  you  bury  your  teeth  in 


EMILE  ZOLA.  259 

the  flesh  of  our  dramatists  ;  but  how  can  I  help 
it  ?  Until  you  bring  me  a  play  better  than  theirs, 
I  am  bound  to  offer  to  my  public  the  works  of 
Augier,  Dumas,  Feuillet,  and  Sardou." 

Thus  it  came  that  Zola,  after  writing  "  The- 
rese  Roquin,"  which  had  a  disputed  success  at 
the  Theatre  de  la  Renaissance  in  1873,  and  "  Les 
Heritiers  Rabourdin,"  a  humorous  play,  which  was 
represented  in  1874  at  the  Theatre  Cluny,  is  now 
trying  his  hand  for  the  first  theatre  in  the  world. 
It  is  said  that  "  Nana  "  will  furnish  the  subject 
for  it.  Let  the  reader  speculate  at  will  upon  the 
subject.  As  for  me,  I  am  ready  to  wager  that  it 
will  prove  revolting  to  many  a  delicate  mind,  but 
surely  it  will  not  harm  half  as  many  women  as  has 
Dumas's  idealistic  conception  of  "  La  Dame  aux 
Camelias." 

Zola  once  lived  at  the  end  of  Avenue  de  Cli- 
chy.  From  his  windows  he  could  see  the  heroes 
of  "  L'Assommoir  "  move  in  the  street  below.  He 
now  lives  in  more  aristocratic  quarters — Rue  de 
Boulogne,  near  the  house  of  Yictorien  Sardou. 
The  Rue  de  Boulogne  is  one  of  the  most  charm- 
ing country-like  suburbs  of  Paris.  The  house  in- 
dicates the  elegant  ease  that  a  popular  Parisian 
writer  always  enjoys,  and  the  fine  artistic  taste  of 
its  owner.  His  study  is  a  large,  comfortable, 
well-lighted  room,  decorated  with  such  care  as 
bespeaks  the  home  -  loving  man.  Emile  Zola 
passes  most  of  his  life  in  this  room,  be  it  either  in 


260  FRENCH   MEN   OF   LETTERS. 

writing,  studying,  conversing,  or  sleeping.  He 
has  himself  described  his  way  of  writing  a  novel 
in  a  conversation  he  had  with  E.  de  Amicis,  from 
which  we  extract  and  condense  a  few  passages. 
"  I  commence  to  work  on  a  novel,"  says  the  author 
of  ''My  Hatreds,"  "without  either  knowing  the 
events  that  will  occur,  the  personages  who  will 
take  part  in  it,  or  what  will  be  the  beginning  or 
the  end.  I  know  only  my  leading  character,  my 
Rongon  or  Macquart,  man  or  woman,  who  is  al- 
ways an  old  acquaintance.  I  meditate  upon  his 
temperament,  the  family  in  which  he  was  born, 
the  first  impressions  he  may  have  received,  and 
upon  the  social  class  to  which  I  have  determined  he 
shall  belong.  I  study  next  from  nature  the  peo- 
ple with  whom  this  personage  will  have  to  deal, 
their  haunts,  the  air  they  will  have  to  breathe, 
their  professions  and  habits,  even  to  the  most  in- 
significant occupations  to  which  they  will  devote 
the  different  portions  of  the  day.  While  study- 
ing out  these  things,  there  suddenly  occurs  to  my 
mind  a  series  of  descriptions  which  can  find  place 
in  the  story,  and  will  be  like  milestones  on  the 
road  that  my  hero  must  travel.  Have  I  to  describe 
a  first  representation  in  one  of  our  most  elegant 
theatres,  a  supper  at  one  of  our  great  restaurants, 
and  the  like,  I  frequent  these  places  for  some  time, 
notice  everything,  ask  questions,  take  notes,  and 
divine  the  rest.  After  two  or  three  months  of 
this  study,  I  become  acquainted  with  that  sort  of 


]fiMILE   ZOLA,  261 

life.  I  see,  feel,  and  live  it  in  my  mind,  so  that  I 
am  sure  of  giving  to  my  novel  the  color  and  real 
perfume  of  that  world.  Besides  this,  living  for 
some  time,  as  I  have  done,  in  that  circle  of  soci- 
ety, I  have  known  the  people  belonging  to  it  ;  I 
have  h^ard  real  facts  related,  have  known  many 
things  that  really  happened  there,  have  learned 
the  language  spoken  there,  and  have  in  my  re- 
membrance a  quantity  of  types,  scenes,  fragments 
of  dialogues,  and  episodes  that  form  a  confused 
novel  consisting  of  a  thousand  loose  and  scattered 
fragments.  Then  comes  what  is  most  difficult  to 
do,  namely,  to  bind  with  one  thread  all  these  rem- 
iniscences. But  I  set  myself  at  it  quite  phlegmat- 
ically,  and  instead  of  employing  imagination,  I 
employ  logic.  I  reason  with  myself,  and  write 
down  my  soliloquies  word  for  word.  I  seek  the 
immediate  consequences  of  the  smallest  event ; 
that  which  arises  logically,  naturally,  and  inevita- 
bly from  the  character  and  situation  of  the  per- 
sonages represented.  I  do  the  work  of  a  detec- 
tive who,  from  a  clew  he  has  obtained,  proceeds  to 
the  discovery  of  some  mysterious  crime.  Some- 
times I  do  not  succeed  in  finding  a  connecting 
link  for  the  event.  Then  I  cease  thinking,  be- 
cause I  know  it  is  time  lost.  Two,  three,  or  four 
days  pass.  One  fine  morning  at  last,  while  I  am 
at  breakfast  and  thinking  of  something  else,  sud- 
denly the  thread  I  was  looking  for  is  found,  and 
all  the  difficulty  is  at  an  end.     My  peace  of  mind 


262  FRENCH  MEN   OF  LETTERS. 

being  restored,  I  set  myself  to  the  most  agreea- 
ble portion  of  my  work — the  writing,  which  is 
done  almost  without  correction.  A  page  is  hardly 
written  when  I  put  it  aside,  and  never  read  it 
again  until  it  is  printed.  I  write  three  printed 
pages  every  day,  and  I  can  calculate  to  a  certain- 
ty the  day  on  which  I  shall  finish  my  story.  I 
spent  six  months  in  writing  *  line  Page  d' Amour,' 
a  year  in  writing  *  L'Assommoir.'  " 

]Smile  Zola  is  strongly  built,  slightly  resem- 
bling Victor  Hugo,  though  rather  stouter  than 
he,  and  not  quite  so  tall.  He  walks  as  straight 
as  an  arrow.  His  face  is  framed  by  very  black 
and  thick  beard  and  hair,  which,  by  contrast,  in- 
tensifies the  paleness  of  his  countenance.  He 
has  a  beautiful  broad  forehead,  stamped  by  a 
straight  and  deep  furrow,  and  the  mien  of  a  man 
who,  having  been  offended  by  the  world,  is  agi- 
tated by  thoughts  of  noble  revenge.  A  tinge  of 
sadness,  too,  spreads  over  his  countenance,  which 
bespeaks  the  pain  that  severity  costs  his  good  na- 
ture. De  Amicis  completes  his  portrait  by  say- 
ing that  when  he  saw  him  in  his  study  he  was 
in  slippers,  without  cravat  or  collar,  and  wore  a 
loose  unbuttoned  jacket,  which  allowed  one  to  see 
his  full,  protruding  figure,  well  adapted  for  breast- 
ing the  waves  of  literary  hatred  and  ire. 

Such  is  the  man  whom,  after  the  "Assom- 
moir  "  appeared,  some  Parisian  critics  represented 
as  a  bundle  of  vice,  a  half  brute,  like  Lantier,  a 


iSMILE  ZOLA.  263 

beast  like  Bee-Sale,  and  as  ugly  a  specimen  of  the 
human  race  as  Bezougue,  the  grave-digger.  Zola 
himself  is,  however,  responsible  in  great  part  for 
the  charge.  A  book  such  as  "Nana"  can  not 
be  written  with  impunity. 


THE   END. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

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